


BLOOD OF THE COVENANT

by dondengaeshi



Series: NCT Vampire AU [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Royalty, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate universe - Mafia, Changing POV, EXO Ensemble - Freeform, M/M, again. only for one chapter though., historical fiction - Freeform, only for one chapter though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 89,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dondengaeshi/pseuds/dondengaeshi
Summary: Doyoung is fairly certain that courtly assassination hadn't been on his and Johnny's itinerary for the night, but he knows for sure that his best friend being kidnapped during the aftermath was a completely unplanned development.It's only on the mission to find the assassin and rescue his friend that he finds himself far more entrenched in the world of vampires than he ever meant to.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong, Moon Taeil/Nakamoto Yuta
Series: NCT Vampire AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104584
Comments: 23
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~this fic is currently unfinished, however its sitting at about 70k and i do intend to finish it. i'll be uploading new chapters as i finish editing them.~~
> 
> c'est complete!!!
> 
> please consider commenting if you enjoy! they keep me motivated to write!

Doyoung has been watching the haunting silhouette of a forest flit past him for nearly an hour now, an endless stroke of heavy black ink cutting jagged edges into the night sky. His wrist is starting to go numb where it's propping up his head against the limousine's expensive leather interior. He doesn't think he sighs that loudly, but Johnny nudges his other arm from beside him.

"We're almost there," he says, reassuring. 

"I don't know why vampires have weddings at night when it's going to be indoors, anyway." It's nearly pitch black outside. The only way Doyoung can even tell that they're driving through a forest is from the limo's headlights which cast an ominous glow on the two-lane road that doesn't seem to have an end in sight. He's half a mind to take out his phone and start filming the rest of the drive, so that if he dies mysteriously at least there'll be some found footage that someone can make a movie out of years down the line. 

"It's just their tradition," Johnny says. "You should be a little more open minded while you're there. Unless you want to get your shit kicked in. Vampires can be touchy." 

Doyoung hums an acknowledgement, finally giving his arm a break from supporting his head. His neck cracks as he lets it settle on his headrest. "Yeah, okay. I'll try not to cause too much of a ruckus." He knows Johnny isn't seriously worried about his courteousness--if he was, he wouldn't have invited him to this wedding as a plus-one in the first place.

There weren't a lot of people in Johnny's life who knew that he had an extended family of vampires, and Doyoung considered it a compliment that he was one of them. He remembers watching Johnny open the nondescript black envelope and pull out a wedding invitation, written in an immaculate cursive font with what could have only been a fountain pen based on how the letters curved sweetly around each other. He hadn't scoffed at how cliché it was, but he might have smirked. 

I don't really interact with any of the vampires in my family, Johnny had said, but it'd be rude to turn them down if they bothered to send me an invitation. They don't take insults lightly.

That had been just over a month ago. And now he's here, watching as the tall black trees thin out into nothing and a massive chateau in the middle of a well-lit clearing opens up to them. There are two large fountains spouting water high into the air on either side of the courtyard along with tall firs decorated with various lights and baubles dotted around the area. 

There's already a large gathering of people all around them as the chauffeur guides them out. A few gawk at them, whispering amongst themselves as different people in vaguely military looking outfits escort them into the building. Doyoung can't help but stare back at them--or rather at their outfits, because wow. Most of them are dressed in the traditional hanbok, but rather than the vibrant fabric that Doyoung's used to seeing, all of them are colored in some shade of black or gray. He can spot a few groups of people who are dressed in clothes that might suit 19th century Europe a little better than traditional South Korean, but either way there isn't a single color to be found on anyone's person. 

He blushes when he realizes that he must stick out like a sore thumb in his own blue tuxedo--a blue tuxedo that had cost a fortune and still managed to make him feel underdressed.

There's a sea of people mingling in the chateau foyer, and for a split second the dread of having to navigate through them is unbearable, but he's relieved when instead they're led up a wide staircase with golden rails to a balcony with seating overlooking a main hall. It's a small space, big enough for two velvety seats with their names engraved, actually engraved onto golden plaques on the backs of them. Doyoung runs a finger over the cold metal in awe. 

"The ceremonies will be beginning a quarter to the hour," one of the escorts says. Then with a bow they both leave, military uniforms disappearing around the corner in a rushed manner. 

"This is insane," Doyoung says to Johnny, still in shock at having reserved seating with his own name plaque.

"If you think this is overkill, check out those chandeliers." 

Looking up, Doyoung gets what he means. The hall is wide enough for not one but two massive chandeliers, both of them made entirely of an innumerable number of small glass crystals and at least a hundred huge candles. They dapple the entire hall below, a conglomeration of yellows and oranges of various shades dancing in time with the flickering of the candles. 

For a few moments they're completely eye-catching, but Doyoung forces his gaze away to the actual people in attendance crowding the hall, sea of black only broken by the occasional dazzling smile or sparkle of jewelry when the angle is just right. There's a plethora of food tables set up along the sidelines, and at the very end of the hall is a simple pavilion that curves around a wide stage. He assumes that's where the wedding will take place.

"Should we go down there?" Doyoung asks.

"Yeah, at least to see Kun, I guess. Royal courtesy and all that." His voice tapers off at the end that tells Doyoung that he isn't too keen on the idea, but he doesn't mention it. 

Regardless, Doyoung must get a worried look on his face, because Johnny smiles at him. "Don't worry. Just stick by me and do as I do, and you'll be fine." 

Doyoung takes a breath. Sure. It's just a huge vampire aristocracy watching his every move for any social faux pas so they can descend upon him like vultures. Of course he'll be fine. 

He follows Johnny back downstairs, through the foyer and into the main hall. Down here, it's easier to see the faces of all the guests casting him curious or disgusted glances, but it actually turns out rather reassuring. If they have human temperaments at least, then he's sure he can get through the night just fine. 

Johnny picks up two small glasses from a waiter as they move through the crowd, handing one to Doyoung. "Try." 

He sniffs it, but can't smell anything. "What is it?" The liquid is clear like water, but somehow it reflects the light differently in a way he can't describe.

"It's...like nectar, I guess. You have to try it if you're here, 'cause you won't get it anywhere else." Johnny knocks his back in one go, setting the empty glass on a nearby table. 

Well, Doyoung thinks, if he's here, he might as well enjoy it. Pouring all the contents into his mouth at once, he lets it sit on his tongue for a few moments before swallowing. It tastes like nothing. He's about to open his mouth to complain, but just as he does, a buzzing sensation comes over his tongue. 

"It...tingles?" he says. It's almost uncomfortable, but not quite. 

"Hell yeah it does," Johnny laughs, grabbing his arm to pull him along. 

Together they weave through the crowd, Doyoung taking great pains not to tread on any of the dresses that drag on the ground--which, of course, most of them do. At the far side of the hall is another set of double doors with a line of people trailing out of it. When they join the queue, Johnny starts straightening out odd creases on Doyoung's suit before doing the same to himself. 

"What are we in line for?" he asks. 

"This is where everybody waits to get their sycophant license renewed," Johnny quips, looking at his hair in the reflection of his phone screen. "I didn't realize we'd get here so late. I hope he still has time to see us." 

"Would he even recognize you? I thought you said you barely even interact with them." 

"I don't," he tells him. "But I'd rather not risk it if he knows I'm already here. We're family, after all." 

Doyoung pulls out his phone to check the time. It's only a quarter past nine. "Does he know you're here?" he asks. "We've barely been here fifteen minutes." 

"Word travels fast at these kinds of events, especially with vampires." Doyoung squints his eyes at the lack of elaboration there, but he stays quiet. He can tell by the look on Johnny's face that he's dreading whatever greeting the king entails.

The line moves slowly, but eventually they inch their way inside of what looks to be a throne room, ostentatiously decorated with silver swords, various pieces of armor, and other shiny artifacts, each of them displayed on golden pedestals lining the perimeter of the room. [In the center is a raised platform made of red stone,](https://youtu.be/Sxx3lbeEdQA?list=PLCsSwZXzQGhO11dZ9loChp_10_4tAyx5s&t=792) adorned with golden curtains with a complex pattern sewn into the fabric. 

As they inch towards the front of the line, Doyoung sees him--or them, rather. The king sits in the center of the platform with an expression like he's trying to hide how bored he is, and there's another person beside him who doesn't bother hiding how disinterested he clearly must feel. They watch him approach, and for a moment he just stares at them until Johnny smacks his arm and motions for him to kneel on one knee.

"Johnny Suh?" Kun says, and Doyoung waits for him to rise before doing so himself. He watches the king stand and stride up to Johnny, his intricate cloak swaying as he moves. "I haven't seen you since you were a teenager."

Johnny gives a tight smile. "Yeah. It's me, Your Grace. It's been a while." 

Kun waves a hand at the title. "Please, there's no need for that. We're family. Kun is just fine." He finally notices Doyoung's presence then, a surprised look coming over his face like he had suddenly appeared before him. "And the same goes for your friend. You are…?" 

"Kim Doyoung," he tells him. He nods. 

"A pleasure," The person that had been sitting beside Kun comes to stand behind him wordlessly, their shoulders brushing. Kun puts a hand on his shoulder. "I don't suppose Johnny's told you about Taeyong?" 

Taeyong takes a step back to bow. "Welcome to our home," he says to Doyoung with obviously rehearsed politeness. His voice isn't monotone, but his eyes are too big, too expressive to mask the fact that he doesn't really care who they are. Or maybe he's giving that impression on purpose. 

Either way, when he turns to greet Johnny, the only thing he says is "Johnny." 

"Taeyong." Johnny greets with equal curtness.

Something odd seeps into the air between them while they stare each other down, and Kun picks up on it at the same time Doyoung does.

"Right," he says just slightly louder than necessary. He glances at someplace behind Doyoung's shoulder and appears to come to a decision. "Why don't we get drinks? This room gets stuffy quickly." He doesn't wait for an answer before stepping around them gracefully, nodding towards the doors. The people that had joined the line behind them watch him exit with somewhat scandalized looks, but he doesn't pay them any mind. Johnny only shrugs when Doyoung gives him a questioning look. They follow.

Johnny and Kun make smalltalk at one of the punch tables; one that had been crowded until Kun's mere presence parted the congregation. Doyoung finds he isn't particularly thirsty, partly because that drink from earlier isn't sitting well in his stomach after all, and partly because Taeyong is staring at him. He chances a look up from where his eyes were trained on the rim of his glass and is met with an unreadable expression. 

"Hi," Doyoung says. 

"Hello," says Taeyong. "You look a little out of your element." 

"Is it that obvious?" he responds, huffing a laugh. "I didn't really know what I was getting into when I accepted Johnny's invitation. There's...a lot going on here." 

Taeyong nods, and he might be imagining it, but some of the tension in his face seems to fall. He offers a small smile, widening when he sees Taeyong return it. "It can be a bit much."

Out of the corner of his eye, Doyoung watches Kun place a hand on Johnny's arm and lean in.

"I know you don't consider us family, Johnny," he's saying, "But this castle is your home as much as it is mine. You're always welcome here, human or no." He can't see Johnny's expression from how he's angled, but he can imagine a strained expression and a forced smile. 

"I know, Kun. I appreciate it." His voice comes out predictably clipped, and upon realizing that this is where any familial tension would probably peak, Doyoung downs the clear liquid in his glass before they realize he was listening.

It's fine for a moment, until a wave of dizziness suddenly hits him and he has to reach out to grab Johnny's arm so he doesn't fall. Taeyong laughs at him, so he sticks out his tongue in response. 

Right as he opens his mouth to say something, a steady drumbeat can be heard from somewhere at the other end of the hall. It grows louder and louder until a procession of dancers emerge from the crowd followed by a group of people playing drums of varying sizes. They're all adorned in vibrantly colored clothing, some carrying extravagant hand fans that open and close in time with the drummers. They weave in and out of the crowd, skipping and twirling along to the rhythm perfectly in sync. 

"The samulnori," Taeyong says into his ear, loud enough to sound over the din. "They're the only people here dressed as brightly as you are." Doyoung gives him a playful shove, then immediately regrets it when he remembers Taeyong's status. He doesn't seem to mind though, just giving him a teasing smile in response. 

Doyoung remembers his elementary school hosting a samulnori performance in the theater once, but it was certainly nothing like what he was watching now. This was much more lively, and he finds it nearly impossible to tear his eyes from their dancing. They move like a wave, each motion and gesture coming one after another in perfect synchronization all while the rhythm of the drums remain steady.

"I didn't know people still did these at weddings," Doyoung shouts over the din. 

"They like to keep to the old ways," Taeyong tells him--he doesn't miss the phrasing, but it's not his place to comment.

It's a relatively small procession, and eventually he watches the last of their painted fans and pale dresses disappear into the crowd of people.

"Well, that'll be our cue," Kun says. Doyoung can't help but wonder who the bride is to justify the look of resignation that comes across his face. "Taeyong, meet me by the kitchens? It was a pleasure meeting you, Doyoung-ssi. And of course, it's always good to see you, Johnny." With that he gives them both a polite nod, and the crowd once again parts for him. 

Johnny leans in to whisper to him. "I'm gonna go find a bathroom. Meet you at our seating?" 

"Sure. I'll see you." 

"And then there were two," Taeyong says once they're alone--as alone as they can be with a gathering of patrons still ogling them, anyway. He links his arm with Doyoung's, sidling up to him and nodding his head towards the sea of people. "Come with me?" 

Though it's a question, he doesn't give him much of a chance to decline. He leads Doyoung back where he and Johnny had come from and up a different staircase on the opposite end of where the seating balconies are. He tries not to pay attention to the people whispering around them while they walk.

Eventually they come to the chateau's upper ramparts, offering a view of the courtyard below and the dark expanse of trees beyond the property. It's dead silent up here compared to the commotion from inside.

Taeyong lets go of him to lean on the stone railing, expression suddenly grim. Anxiety unfurls in Doyoung's chest at the shift. 

"Just so we're clear, I'm only telling you this as a courtesy, and because I'd rather this night not end with any bloodshed," he begins. "You need to watch your back while you're here. This might look like your regular run-of-the-mill wedding, but there are people here who are merciless, some of them downright cruel. They know you're here, and they know you're human. You might as well be wearing a massive target on your back."

Doyoung is momentarily stunned into silence. "What? Why does being human make me a target?" 

"It may look civilized on the surface, but there are more than a couple families here that still consider humans cattle. Unless you're familiar with The Game, which you aren't, they'll take advantage of you. Best case scenario, you survive the night. Worst case scenario, you don't."

Doyoung has no clue what the game he's talking about is, but that's at least number three on his mental processing queue.

"Okay," he says, suddenly feeling like a lost child. "Okay. But everyone back there saw us walking together. Doesn't that put me at an even bigger risk here, if I'm...a target?" 

"It does, but it's canceled out by the fact that I'm me. Call it diplomatic immunity." Doyoung thinks back to the hand Kun had placed on Johnny's arm earlier in front of all those people, and how he had leaned far too much into his personal space to be considered courteous. 

Oh, god. They're going to die here. The dread must be obvious on his face, because Taeyong laughs. 

"I'm sure you'll be fine. It'd probably be for the best if you interact with as few people as possible. Don't accept any drinks, don't agree to escort any young damsel anywhere. Keep your cards close to your chest."

Okay. Doyoung can do that. Not talking to people is easy.

"Are me and Johnny the only humans in the chateau?" he asks. 

Taeyong looks like he's about to say no, but he stops himself. "Now that you mention it, I did overhear a word or two about another human in the court--a young man whose name I didn't catch. You could try and find him if you want, but you'd be putting yourself at risk." 

Doyoung nods, filing that information away for later. His smile is a little shaky with nerves, but he figures the effort is worth something anyway. "I really appreciate the warning, Taeyong. Thank you."

"But…" Taeyong continues, looking like he's still debating something in his head. "If anything does happen, you can come find me." He casts a glance in both directions before stepping closer to him and whispering into his ear. "The code word is limitless. The guards know what it means. They'll help you on my behalf." 

When he pulls away, Doyoung releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. Limitless. It's easy enough to remember. Taeyong straightens himself suddenly, running a hand through his hair and taking in a deep breath. 

"Unfortunately, I have some other things to attend to," he says with feigned formality, making Doyoung smile. Again, it's returned. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Doyoung-ssi. I trust you'll be able to find your way back?" 

"I'll remember the way," Doyoung says. "The pleasure was all mine." He watches Taeyong disappear around the corner of the opposite end of the walkway, and then he's all alone. 

He takes a breath. It's the beginning of June, and the air is warm but not uncomfortably so. Only a sliver of the moon hangs in the night sky, and he can't help but wonder at how still it looks, completely unbothered by the billions of lives it shines on every night. It must be safe up there in the emptiness of space, nothing to threaten its existence, and not offering any threat to anything else itself.

In that moment, Doyoung envies it. 

He feels a bit paranoid stepping back into the vestibule, but he thinks he manages to look composed enough once he steps back into the hectic ballroom. It's only when he's faced again with the sea of people that he realizes he has no idea where to even begin looking for the other human, and he chastises himself inwardly for not thinking to at least ask what he had been wearing. 

Considering the suits that he and Johnny were wearing though, he figures it wouldn't be too hard to spot another person dressed in modern clothing. It'd probably make his life significantly easier to just ask around, but aside from Taeyong's warning, he isn't sure he can manage to not stumble into a social faux-pas somehow. 

Luckily, the samulnori performance from earlier is continuing up on the front pavilion, capturing the attention of most of the guests and leaving Doyoung free to flit in between the crowd easily.  
Blending in at the punch tables and people watching has its charm, Doyoung comes to find out, but ultimately he never finds anyone particularly standing out as human by the time the stage performance ends and people begin to abandon their empty glasses on any available surface for the servants to pick up.

His nerves are hardly placated when he finally collapses into his seat on the balcony. From up here, he can see the groups of people mingling slowly migrate to their designated seating. He checks the time; 9:45 on the dot. Johnny still hasn't returned. 

Some minutes pass, and a silence falls over the hall below. Everybody is in their seats now, and Doyoung watches two figures step onto the front pavilion; he recognizes Taeyong escorting what looks to be a young lady across the stage, a thin cloth veiling her face. They stop at the edge of the platform, and only a few moments pass before Kun enters the stage, following in their footsteps and stopping in the center. 

It's an intentional few moments of dramatic pause before he speaks. 

"Everyone," Kun says, mustering all of his prescribed kingliness into the word. "It's an honor to me, third in line to the throne of Korea's vampiric dynasty, that you could join me here today for this momentous occasion. Today, we--" 

His words are cut off by the unmistakable whistle of something flying through the air. Doyoung doesn't even see it, but the movement of air is sharp where it passes by his ear, and Kun is knocked backwards by the force of something nearly invisible piercing his skull. The crack! that sounds from the force of the impact is audible throughout the silent hall, a thin spray of red splattering the white tile of the pavilion just as his body crashes to the ground. 

Doyoung isn't even sure if he's breathing. He watches as Taeyong takes a few steps backwards in disbelief, before he grabs the bride's wrist and absconds with her off the stage and through the doors they had entered from.

Then the screaming starts. 

The first one is shrill and hair-raising, and one by one the cries of horror start to rise from the congregation. Doyoung can't move, can't drag his eyes away from the lifeless body of Qian Kun that lay abandoned on the wedding stage, who had been alive moments ago. He keeps expecting the scene to shift, for new actors to enter stage right--where are the guards? Why isn't anyone doing anything?

It's enough for him to remember his body, but just as he stands, there's a violent gust of wind that erupts from nowhere he can comprehend. The fires in the chandeliers are all blown out at once, plunging the auditorium in darkness. More screams, the sound of chairs being thrown backwards and the uncomfortable screech of metal against marble, a child crying. He tries to ignore it, stumbling out from his balcony seating blindly before remembering his phone. 

Its flashlight is hardly bright enough to light the wide hall that leads into the vestibule, but it's better than nothing. All he can see are lavishly decorated banners that line the walls and brief flashes of terrified faces and black clothing as people stampede out from the main hall. There's a pale light coming from the direction they're moving that indicates an exit, but Doyoung still hasn't found Johnny. 

He's about to step into the moving crowd, but someone is shoved violently out from the procession and lands heavily on the ground in front of him. He doesn't think twice about kneeling down to help her, but the moment his hand touches her shoulder, she lashes out at his face with nails too sharp to be human. Doyoung falls backwards at the force of it, dropping his phone as he lands on his side.

"Keep your hands off me!" she screeches, and within a moment there's someone else extending a hand to help her stand. Doyoung can only watch in shock as they give him one last look of pure disgust before fleeing back into the swarm of people. He absently feels around the ground for his phone, bringing his other hand up to his cheek where he had been scratched. His entire palm comes away wet. 

His legs are shaky when he finally manages to stand, but just as he does, there's a loud pop! coming from the main hall that carries over the clamor. Immediately following is a crash and the cacophonous sound of what must be hundreds of glass baubles shattering all at once. The screams rise again, completely deafening this time as he stumbles to a nearby wall to try and regain his senses.

The chandeliers, he realizes with cold horror. The massive crystal chandeliers that hung beautifully suspended over the assembly of people that could definitely be turned into a weapon of mass murder.

And Doyoung still hasn't found Johnny. 

All around him everyone and everything seems to be moving too fast to comprehend, and he can feel his stomach tightening as it prepares to violently evict the contents of his stomach. He can't remember a time in his life where he's felt this panicked, anxiety so intense he isn't sure he can even comprehend it. He really thinks he's about to keel over for a few moments when a voice sounds over the din. 

"Doyoung!" it calls, and suddenly all of his senses sharpen. It's Johnny without a doubt. Doyoung waits a few moments to be sure he isn't imagining things, and he hears it again, but it's cut off before Johnny can finish the last syllable of his name. All thoughts of vomiting vanish as he manages to put one foot in front of the other again. There's too much movement for Doyoung to be completely sure, but it sounded like Johnny was in the main hall. 

It's difficult to push against the moving crowd, but somehow he manages to make it inside. It's only somewhat emptier in here, but he's just barely able to make out a low hissing somewhere above him. It's hardly at the forefront of his mind, though, as he pushes through the tail-end of the deluge of people. 

"Johnny-hyung!" he yells as loud as he can over the clamor. He cringes midway through the cry, the gashes on his cheek loudly protesting any kind of stretch of the muscles in his jaw. He calls for him again anyway, over and over until he's able to push through to the pitch-black hall. 

Though he can't see a thing, the smell of blood is strong enough for him to stumble backwards. It's easy enough for him to picture a horrible mass of corpses buried beneath pure white glass, all of them bleeding out together to collect in a literal bloodbath on the cold stone floor. 

The image is terrifying enough for him to freeze in place, and suddenly there's a pair of hands dragging him backwards and the large doors are hauled shut by the castle guards--where'd they come from? Why are they only just now showing up? 

"The main hall is off limits while we're investigating," they're saying, stern and emotionless. "Please exit the chateau calmly through the main doors."

Doyoung lets them guide him somewhat aggressively back through where he came from, hardly even comprehending their words. There are women screaming for their loved ones who didn't make it out of the hall, bawling children being carried by the guards away from where the cooling corpses of their parents lay beneath the chandelier. The only way he can tell he still occupies a physical form is from the way his cheek starts to feel like it's been fire branded.

He's still reeling by the time the world slowly starts to piece itself back together around him. He's sitting on the edge of the courtyard fountain, the moving water carrying up a cool breeze. He inhales it with a slow breath, counting to five, and then exhaling. Johnny used to force him to do breathing exercises back when they had been roommates in college. Johnny, whose voice he had definitely heard after the chandelier had dropped. It had been too clear for it to be a cry for help--it didn't sound like he was in pain, or at least in any immediate danger. 

Doyoung has to believe he's still alive. He has to.

Eventually the adrenaline starts to dissipate from his body. There are people about the courtyard; most are comforting their loved ones, others are bawling loudly, and he can spot a few people simply standing around in a confused daze--the latter of which he can relate to. Still, he's regained enough of his cognition to decide the best course of action would be to find some kind of authority.

"Um, excuse me?" he says once he finds a pair of guards discussing something with serious expressions. They turn to look at him, eyeing him the same way the young lady from earlier had.

"What is it?" one of them says. "We're doing our best to get things under control. If it's not an emergency, then--"

"Limitless," Doyoung interrupts sharply. He hates being rude, but this is too important for manners. "Taeyong told me you would help me." 

The guards share a look, communicating silently before one nods and walks away. 

"Come," the remaining one says, setting off at a brisk pace towards the edge of the courtyard and around to the side of the chateau. Doyoung has to maintain a light jog to keep up. 

The stone plinth that makes up the courtyard's foundation makes way for cold hard dirt as the guard leads them into the forest, and Doyoung's fight or flight responses kick in accordingly.

"Where are we going?" he says. The forest canopy is thick enough to block out any light that the moon might have given; he's using his ears more than his eyes to tell where he's going. 

The guard doesn't answer. Pretty soon Doyoung can just barely make out a small dilapidated shed that looks like it's been forcibly shoved in between the two trees framing it. The guard stands to the side of the hut's facade, and Doyoung imagines that he's looking at him expectantly.

"Taeyong is in here?" he asks. 

"He is," the guard says. "Give out this location to anyone, and we'll have your head on a pike." 

"Noted." 

With that, he pushes open the creaky wooden door and steps inside. There's hardly enough space for two people, but there's a small shelf on the wall boasting a single lit candle--some kind of signal, he assumes. Other than that, there's nothing else of note inside of the shed, let alone another person. 

He's about to step back outside, but his gaze catches on a section of the wooden floorboard that doesn't match up with the surrounding planks. It takes a few moments of staring before he realizes that the irregularity in the wood forms a perfect circle. He taps his foot on it to confirm his suspicions, and sure enough a hollow echo sounds from below.

It's a little uncomfortable with his blunt nails, but eventually he's able to pry up the circular wooden panel and reveal a deep, dark hole with a rusted ladder built into the sides of the earth. 

Doyoung considers his options. A horribly dark forest, possibly full of vampires that he would absolutely get lost in if he tried to navigate it himself; or, a long, equally dark hole that leads God knows where, but may or may not be his only chance of finding Johnny. 

Outside, a crow calls out into a silent night, high and ominous enough to make Doyoung's hair stand on end. 

He knows he won't be able to forgive himself if he doesn't exhaust all possible options for finding his friend before giving up. Re-equipping his phone flashlight, he eases himself slowly into the hole, carefully pulling the wood panel back over the opening before continuing his descent. 

It's deep, but not nearly as deep as he thought it was. It's dark once Doyoung finally reaches the bottom, and the ground is solid enough to feel like stone. Up ahead is a bright orange light--a series of bright orange lights, actually, and he realizes that he's in a tunnel. 

It feels equal parts reassuring and damning, but at this point he might as well continue. His footsteps echo loudly throughout the chamber, but luckily it's the only sound he can hear. It's easier to convince himself that a zombie isn't going to jump out and grab him that way.

As he approaches the lights, he learns that they're torches--all of them posted up along the walls of the tunnel, equidistant from each other. They're the only source of heat in the otherwise freezing cold tunnel, small patches of warmth that don't do a very good job of heating up the dead air. 

He doesn't know how far he walks, but his legs are sore by the time the tunnel suddenly opens up into a larger chamber. The first thing Doyoung notices before he even enters it is a massive, intricate pattern of lines neatly engraved into the stone, curling along the walls on all sides. 

Just as he moves closer to inspect it, a voice calls from within. "Who's there?"

Doyoung recognizes it immediately. "Taeyong? Is that you?" 

"Doyoung?" Taeyong's voice again. His head peeks out from around the corner, and he pulls Doyoung inside the chamber by the wrist quickly once he's in reach. "You're alive."

"If you say so," Doyoung says, gesturing at the claw marks on his cheek. It's stopped bleeding, but it still burns like hell. Taeyong makes a pained noise when he first notices the wound, darting to a nearby chest and pulling out what he can only assume is a first-aid kit. 

"Come," he says. Doyoung goes over to kneel close in front of him, hardly given a moment's warning before an alcohol-heavy cloth is dabbed across the gashes. "What happened?" Taeyong asks, ignoring his hiss of pain. 

"I don't know," he answers. "One of the patrons--I tried to help her, and she just lashed out at me. Everyone was panicking, it was...awful." Awful, and probably more traumatizing than he's able to process right now. Taeyong seems to understand, nodding sagely as he cleans around the cuts. 

"Our guests can be like that," he says apologetically. "It could've been worse." 

There's a pause while Taeyong works, the crackling of the nearby torches suddenly far too loud to be comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a small makeshift tent fashioned out of a worn cloth propped up in one corner of the room. He thinks he hears soft sniffles and someone shuffling around lightly coming from that direction, but he tries not to focus on it. After a while he can't hold off the one question he wants to ask any longer.

"What happened, Taeyong?"

Taeyong finishes applying a cloth bandage to his cheek before answering. "Qian Kun, the fourth king of the ruling denomination of vampires in Korea, was assassinated by an unknown party on the night of the wedding that would cement his rule," he begins, and Doyoung would almost call his tone robotic if not for the strain of sarcasm in his words. Then Taeyong sighs, dropping all pretence of aristocratic sophistication. "I don't know, Doyoung. When Kun had asked to see me in the kitchens just before the ceremony, I thought something was off--there were guards, but they gave me these weird looks. Like they were watching me. Well, they always have to be watching me, but…" He gets a far-off look in his eyes when he trails off.

"I understand," Doyoung says, and Taeyong comes back to. "When everyone started fleeing, I didn't get why it took so long for any guards to show up after...what happened." 

"What did happen? Afterwards, I mean." 

Everything that transpired after the assassination happened so fast that the memories feel like frozen frames in his mind, the normal passage of time not applying to that pungent smell of blood or the sound of people screaming. He's not even sure how much time has elapsed since then.

"All of the lights went out," he says, staring at the ground as he sifts through the memory. "The chandeliers, I mean. A gust of wind blew out all of the fire, and then people started screaming, running to the front doors. A lot of people got out, but then…" The crash of the chandelier had been so loud, so violent, that it's without a doubt the most vivid part of the memory. His hair stands on end when he remembers that deafening crash. 

"They cut the chandelier--the assassins, I guess. I don't know. There was the sound of metal breaking and then the chandelier fell from the ceiling, and…" 

"And people died," Taeyong picks up for him. 

"Yeah," he finishes quietly. "A lot of people, I think." 

Taeyong nods absently, and Doyoung can almost see the compartmentalizing going on behind his eyes. "After the bullet hit, I fled with the princess, and we came straight here." His eyes slide somewhere off to the side at the mention of her, and Doyoung follows it. At the corner of the room, the princess is sitting with her knees to her chest with her feathery white dress falling into a pool of cloth around her. She's staring intently at the ground. Doyoung doesn't think she's even noticed his presence. "You're alone, though." 

Oh, fuck. 

Johnny. 

He can feel the color immediately drain from his face before he remembers that Johnny is alive, he's definitely alive because he heard his voice from the crowd, he had to be alive because Doyoung doesn't know how he's going to explain to his mother that he's dead. 

A fresh wave of dizziness comes over him at how quickly he flip-flopped between overwhelming panic and relief in the span of about two seconds. Taeyong reaches out to steady him. 

"Drink a little too much? You'd think assassination would be a little sobering," is what he says, and Doyoung can hardly process the fact that he's able to joke about all of this. 

"Johnny told me it was like nectar." he says absently, willing the world to come back into focus.

Taeyong snorts. "Oh, that stuff?" he says. "That's definitely poisonous to humans. In small doses it can be a bit like getting high, I guess."

That'd explain the dizziness. Doyoung shakes it off best he can. "Johnny went to find the bathroom just before the ceremony started," he explains. "He never came back--but I heard his voice, Taeyong, in the middle of all the chaos. It had to be him. I tried to go find him, but his voice was suddenly cut off. He never came out from the chateau and I don't know what happened to him, but I know he's alive." He hopes he doesn't sound too much like a raving maniac, but if Taeyong isn't willing to help him find Johnny, then--

"I believe you, Doyoung." 

Doyoung freezes. "You do?" 

"I do," Taeyong says, and his brows furrow. "Doyoung, listen. I don't know how familiar you are with Johnny's relation to the royal family, but if there were assassins out for Kun's life, then it's almost indisputable that they know about Johnny." 

Doyoung takes a moment to synthesize that information. "If they knew about him, they didn't kill him, though."

"No. But I wouldn't put kidnapping past a cold-blooded killer."

The night had started out simple enough, Doyoung thinks. It was supposed to be an easy-going wedding for Johnny's extended family, then they could both go home to their shared apartment and laugh about how weird it all was over pizza and a movie. Instead, Doyoung had ended up being a witness for a royal assassination, Johnny was kidnapped, and he was currently sitting in a deep, dark hole, god knows where underneath a forest that probably had an infinite number of ways to kill him. 

Maybe it's just his bad habit of emotional repression, but right now it's all too surreal for him to feel any particular way about it. 

"So, what happens now?" he asks Taeyong as coolly as possible. 

"I'm not sure what plans you have," he says, "But I have to get the princess back home, and then I'm going to see a friend. I can help you out of the forest and back into your human city, but no more than that. It's probably best if you don't mention what happened here tonight." 

No, no, no--Doyoung's blood runs cold as he talks. Taeyong can't leave him here to pretend nothing happened to Johnny. "But what about Johnny? If he's still out there, don't we have to go find him? Isn't he of royal blood?" 

Something hardens in Taeyong's expression. "Doyoung, there's no 'we' in this equation. What happened to Johnny was tragic, but what do you think you can do about it? There's a reason humans and vampires live separately in this world."

"How can you talk as if he's already dead?" Doyoung demands, and the look of surprise on Taeyong's face has him wondering if anyone's ever even raised their voice at him before. 

"He may as well be," Taeyong says nonchalantly, but his eyes betray the indignation running beneath the surface at his disrespect. "If he was alive then, he probably won't be for much longer."

"I can't believe that," he responds firmly, then shakes his head. Obstinance isn't going to get him anywhere. "Taeyong, please. I know you think I'm a stupid, frail little human who can't handle myself or whatever, but please. If there's even a ghost of a chance that Johnny is alive, I have to chase it. He's my best friend, and I owe it to him to at least try and find him." 

Some of the tension deflates from Taeyong's posture, but his expression remains standoffish. For a while he just stares at Doyoung, and somehow he finds the courage to hold his gaze. If he's searching for any hint of dishonesty or weakness, he doesn't find it. 

"I have to make sure the princess gets home safely," Taeyong tells him, eyes darting to the tent and back. "If you really want to do this, meet me at the shed in two days' time, once the sun has gone down. Use the same codeword. The guards will make sure you get here safely."

Just like that the weight on his chest lifts, and he exhales with relief. 

Only for a moment though, because the truth is that when people in Seoul go missing, the authorities rarely investigate it if they have reason to believe vampires were involved. They're careful to maintain that fine line of tolerance between each other, even at the expense of what most would consider plain justice. 

He's taking a risk here, but he can't go back home and explain to Johnny's family that he simply disappeared and he didn't do anything to look for him. He'd never forgive himself.

"I'll be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill be posting song recs at the end of every chapter! 
> 
> [DEAN - bonnie & clyde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ze6drtwiE4)
> 
> catch me on twitter @sputnikmp3


	2. Chapter 2

Yuta breathes a sigh of relief once he's finally able to spot the abandoned hangar coming up in the distance.

"Thank god," Jaemin sighs dramatically from the passenger seat. "That was a clown fiesta if I've ever seen one."

"At least we made it out alive before the chandeliers fell," says Xiaojun. 

"Wasn't that kind of genius, though? Taeil-hyung always talks about making weapons of our environment." 

There's a groan from the back seat before Xiaojun can respond. Jaemin coos. "Looks like our guest is awake." 

Yuta hadn't bothered blindfolding Johnny before abducting him, which he's hoping was worth the hassle, because man is he awkward to handle. He told Jaemin to be careful when sprawling him out in the backseat, but he understands if his long limbs quickly became frustrating for him. He pulls the car into the same patch of dead grass he always does, flattened by years of parking in the same spot. 

"Who are you?" Johnny asks, words still somewhat slurred. Xiaojun and Jaemin don't respond as they help him out of the car and lead him towards the hangar doors, pulling him by the scarf they tied around his wrists. 

"That's not for you to know," Yuta tells him. "At least not right now." 

"Are you going to kill me?" 

Jaemin can't hold back his laughter at that—he never lets an opportunity to laugh at someone go, anyway. Xiaojun swats at his arm.

"Haven't decided yet," Yuta says, and he can hear the way Johnny's heartbeat starts racing. The fear is coming off him in waves.

They've been able to decorate the hangar in the year since they claimed it as a base of operations. There was no electricity, but they were lucky enough to stumble upon an old generator that powered exactly half of the artificial lights that hung from the ceiling and some of the small appliances they've scrounged up in the meanwhile. There's a collection of old couches pushed up to one corner that functions as a lounge, and a staircase at the opposite end of the room leading to an upper platform. It's from up there a small circular window allows what little bit of moonlight there is to cascade down to the bottom floor like a weak spotlight. 

It's makeshift and quite a ways away from civilization, but it's home.

"Put him in the tunnels," he instructs Jaemin and Xiaojun, immediately headed towards the staircase. 

For all that they called the ratty collection of couches downstairs a lounge, he has to give the people who built this hangar a bit of praise for including a real one in the building's blueprint. The old metal stairs were somewhat rusted and they had to replace more than one of the steps in the time they've been here, but the room in the upper half of the building was relatively clean, and Taeil always said that he felt safer up there than down below. Before Jaemin and the others had come along, He and Yuta had transformed the room into a bedroom, complete with two twin-size mattresses pushed together for the both of them, a bedside dresser, and a singular lamp. 

Taeil's face scrunches together when he enters, disturbed by the creak of the old door. 

"Yuta?" he says, wiping the sleep from his eyes. A smile blooms across his face when he approaches where he's curled up in a mass of blankets, and his heart stutters. "You look like you just came back from The Black Parade." 

That's fair. He doesn't think he stood out at the wedding too badly—everyone there was dressed in as much black as he was, though maybe with a little less leather. His eyeliner was on point, though.

"I thought the choker might have been a bit much," he says, untying his black combat boots and sliding himself under the blankets with Taeil. It's warm, too warm to be comfortable, but Yuta pulls him into his arms and plants a loving kiss onto his cheek anyway. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better today. Or tonight, rather. Not nearly as dizzy." 

"Good," Yuta says, and some of the tightness leaves his chest. "That's good. I'm sure you'll get better soon." 

Taeil hums into his chest. He's always been a cuddlebug. "How was the wedding?" 

Oh, where to begin. "Babe, you're never gonna believe it." 

He recounts the story from the very beginning—arriving with Jaemin and Xiaojun, how Qian Kun hardly batted an eyelash at them and Taeyong looked older than last time, the looks of disgust most of the patrons gave them for their bleached hair and lack of aristocratic etiquette. 

"We weren't even that bad this time," he complains. "The only people causing a ruckus were those groups of women trying and failing to get a word of gossip out of me. I swear they wouldn't leave me alone."

Taeil chuckles. "Are you sure they weren't just flirting with you?" 

"Probably," he says. "I tried to pretend they weren't, though. I don't want to feel like I'm wanted at those kinds of gigs."

Something heavy and unspoken hangs in the air just after he says it. He doesn't acknowledge it, telling Taeil all about the royal chateau; the people there, the sights and the sounds and the scandals and everything about The Game. It's been a while since Yuta's played himself, but interacting with the aristocracy in all its sly and underhanded glory was muscle memory after being saturated in it for the few years he was. 

When he finally gets to the part where Qian Kun was assassinated, Taeil's eyes go comically wide before settling into fond exasperation.

"There was an assassination at court, and you've spent the last five minutes talking to me about how Yoo Kihyun was sucking up to the king—who's dead now, apparently." 

"It's all about setting the scene," Yuta laughs. "And hey, courtly intrigue is fascinating. Never know when Kihyun being a sycophant can come in handy as far as blackmail goes."

Taeil doesn't seem to find it as entertaining as he does, his expression turning worried. He cuddles in closer to Yuta's body, tangling their legs together. He's so, so warm. 

"What happens now?" he asks Yuta.

Yuta thought about that for the entire drive home, and though he has an idea, he doesn't know for sure. 

The matter of who ascends the throne is rather simple—the closest blood relative of the last king who is of age is selected, or if there is none, the council holds a vote. As it stands, Qian Kun had two blood relatives; Lee Taeyong and Johnny Suh. The latter was essentially out of the question though, as the aristocracy has always liked to quietly pretend he didn't even exist.

It's all but guaranteed that Taeyong will be Qian Kun's successor—but really, who knew how long that would be. Though the aristocracy had it's rules, they were almost completely nominal. As far as Yuta was concerned, the people involved in the proper ascension of the throne were wolves, constantly vying for power between themselves and everyone over whom they had jurisdiction. Aces would be played, familial treatises broken, lives played with like pieces on a chess board.

That Lee Taeyong was related to Qian Kun meant almost nothing in the unending maelstrom of the Game.

It was Yuta's luck that he happened to be quite the adept player himself. Xiaojun, always several steps ahead of the pack, had alerted him of Johnny Suh's presence not twenty minutes into their sojourn at the chateau. Yuta didn't believe him at first—humans don't have a place at those kinds of events. He had spotted Johnny for himself though, so when that silver bullet had struck Qian Kun's skull, the split second decision to abduct him in the wake of the chaos was too good to pass up really the only option they had. 

The aristocracy is going to be up in flames, and Yuta isn't going to come out anywhere but on top.

"I don't know how long it's been since I've talked to another human," Taeil says with a reminiscent look in his eyes and a bitter smile. "He could be useful, though. Blackmail, ransom, bait; the possibilities are endless. Anything in particular you had in mind?"

Yuta shakes his head. It had been hard to think straight during the ride home with Jaemin's constant prattling on about meaningless gossip. "Right now, nothing. Keeping him off of the throne is enough. I want to discuss it with the others though; they might have some more interesting ideas."

"Renjun and Hendery went out on a contract tonight," Taeil informs him. "They said they'd bring back pizza."

"Anything serious?"

"Just a landlord's daughter who wants her husband killed. The regular." 

Yuta smiles. The regular. The regular was good, because it means they get to keep living like this, working with blood and dagger, secluded from the world that's shown time and time again that they don't have a place in society. 

He thinks they've done fairly well for themselves, considering. The past five years have had its ups and downs, but Taeil's never lost faith in him. 

Yuta pulls back a little so he can press a kiss to his lips, warm and loving. Taeil smiles into it. 

It had been by complete chance that the hangar they had stumbled upon a little over a year ago happened to cover up an entrance to the old tunnels. He's not sure how many people remember the hundreds, maybe thousands of people that had dissolved into the earth beneath their feet, but he knows it's just another relic of information that doesn't have a place in the present.

Still, it's always been a little difficult for him to walk down the stone steps that were hidden just behind a nondescript door in the hangar's main room without thinking of how many corpses might still be decomposing in the walls. Whenever he's down here, it's so easy for memories that are nearly a century past to come roaring in all around him as if time had never progressed at all.

"How is he?" Yuta asks Renjun, who is following close behind him.

"He's not delirious anymore, but he's...frustrating," At Yuta's raised eyebrow, he says "You'll see." 

Yuta clicks his tongue. He supposes he will.

Johnny is lying curled up in a corner when they finally make it to the holding chambers. The tunnel has collapsed in on itself on one side, leaving a collection of dirt and concrete piled up on one side of the makeshift jail cell. The iron bars still held strong despite the wreckage.

He blinks open his eyes slowly at the sound of their footsteps approaching, but he doesn't move to sit up. His skin is pale and he can't seem to focus on what's in front of him.

"Have you fed him?" Yuta asks.

"No, but it's only been a day and a half."

Yuta stares at him for some long moments before deciding on mercy. Affecting his speaking-to-a-child voice and enunciating every word clearly, "Renjun, humans die when they go without food or water." 

Renjun's eyes widen. "Even just for a few days?" 

"Yes, even just for a few days. Please go bring something to ensure our hostage doesn't croak before we can get anything out of him." 

Renjun leaves, face slightly flushed. Yuta pulls a stool up to the iron bars and sits. Johnny just stares at him, and Yuta stares back. They hold each other's gaze until Renjun returns with a bottle of water and a packet of crackers, slipping his hand through the bars to set them on the ground gently. Johnny doesn't even twitch.

"Do you know who I am, Johnny Suh?" Yuta finally speaks. Johnny heaves a labored breath before responding.

"Fuck you." 

"Told you," Renjun says under his breath. Yuta sighs. 

"This will be easier for you if you cooperate."

"I don't cooperate with murderers." 

"Who said we were murderers?" Yuta asks, bringing a faux-offended hand to his chest. "Certainly not me."

Johnny pushes himself up into a seated position with much difficulty, letting his head fall back onto the harsh stone wall with a dull thud. "Who else would have assassinated Kun other than the people who kidnapped me at the very same event? I'm not stupid." 

"Maybe not, but you shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions. Do you understand what will happen now without a king on the throne?"

"Taeyong will be king," Johnny grunts, face pinched with the effort of speaking.

"He will," Yuta agrees. "But not without the shuffling of many, many cards. You, Johnny Suh, just so happen to be one of them."

A pause. "Do all vampires speak in riddles?"

"I'm not going to kill you," Yuta ignores his question, standing. "You're worth more than that. Consider my admission of that an olive branch."

With that he leaves, and he can hear Renjun shuffle to keep up behind him.

"Yuta-hyung," he calls. "What do you want?"

"World domination," Yuta answers without missing a beat. 

"It's about Taeil-hyung, isn't it?" Renjun presses. Yuta settles an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as they exit back into the hangar. 

"Renjunnie, I think you'll find that most things in my life revolve around Moon Taeil." 

Renjun peels Yuta's arm from around his shoulders, and he knows he's being serious this time because he doesn't bother sticking his tongue out at Yuta's gushiness. 

"Hyung, I don't know if you know, but he wouldn't eat anything for the entire day yesterday. He says he's getting better, but we all know he isn't—and I know you especially know that he isn't, either. Why don't you do anything?"

Yuta had expected someone to eventually try and force him to swallow that pill, though he always thought it would be Jaemin with his lack of a filter, or Yangyang and his confrontational nature. Renjun was thoughtful and mild-mannered as a foundation, even if he didn't show that he cared in ways that might be easy to interpret.

This was definitely one of the ways he did, though, and anything Yuta could say to answer his question would amount to little more than an admission of fear. In all his life, he's never feared anything as much as losing him; just the thought of it is enough to make bile rise to his throat. He can't remember loving anyone as much as he loves Moon Taeil, and he can't imagine anything he wouldn't do for him. Yuta thinks he'd love him even if Taeil never wanted to see him again. 

Renjun knows that. He's sure the rest of their coterie does, too.

"I've already done what I can, Renjun," he admits, collapsing into one of the couches in the lounge. "There aren't a lot of human doctors that are even willing to speak to us, let alone help us—and that's if they know what's wrong with him. Putting him at the mercy of another vampire is hardly any better. I don't like just sitting here on my heels waiting for him to get better, but I'm running out of ideas." 

"You don't know that, hyung. Times are changing—you might be able to find someone…"

Of course Yuta's already thought about damning all possible consequences and seeking outside help, but as of right now, it's a course of action he only wants to carry out as a last resort. He's seen first hand the cruelty vampires have shown humans, and the idea of Taeil being at the mercy of people he doesn't trust makes him feel sick. 

It had been innocuous at first; just a cold that would surely pass within a week or two. It took about a month for the fatigue to become a constant, at which point Yuta suspended him from taking on any more contracts, and another week after that for the dizziness to set in. After that the symptoms have come and go without rhyme or reason, some days worse than others. Insomnia and unshakable sleepiness, clammy skin and cold sweats—some days his eyes were glassy and his hands twitched and trembled uncontrollably. It was as if he was dancing with death and nobody knew when their routine would end. Yuta was used to living every day on edge, but this was different, the rise and setting of the moon moving in time with the ocean of dread in his stomach.

"Or," Renjun continues, "I still think that rumor Xiaojun picked up is worth looking into."

"It'll take a little more than an off-hand rumor to get me to break into the royal chateau, Renjun."

"You said it yourself, hyung—you're running out of options. Nobody in our group would think less of you for pursuing it."

Yuta knows that. This coterie wouldn't have been formed unless they all trusted each other with their lives, let alone their deepest, darkest fears. If it's become enough of an issue for someone to bring it up with him, Yuta supposes he should respect their opinion.

"It'll take a lot of planning," he says. Renjun's eyes brighten at his tentative acquiescence, his next words coming out almost enthusiastic. 

"And we don't even know what we're looking for, but we have to start somewhere." Renjun reaches over to take one of Yuta's hands in his own. "We want to help Taeil just as much as you do, hyung. Help us help you."

It's impossible for Yuta to restrain his smile at that, and some of the weight on his shoulders lifts when Renjun returns it. 

What he's saying is true. He knows Jaemin and Yangyang have been taking turns spending time with Taeil whenever Yuta was out on a contract, watching old drama reruns or reading to him whenever his eyes became too heavy to hold open, and he knows Renjun has been encouraging Taeil to eat, even if his body is rejecting anything he puts in his mouth. It's a support system he never thought he'd have again, and he's grateful. 

"Alright, Injunnie," Yuta says. "Let's plan a heist." 

Taeil disapproves of their plan as Yuta knew he would, but not enough to actively prevent him from carrying it out, weakness notwithstanding. 

"Just come home to me safely," he had whispered into Yuta's chest, and he thinks Taeil might have brought him back to life then and there with how strongly his affection thrums through his veins. Their kiss had felt too much like a goodbye, and it's because of that that Yuta's never been more determined to return home to his love.

It's unlikely that the chateau's security would loosen up anytime soon, so they only spend a week and a half monitoring the premises before making their move—amateur by Yuta's standards, but the state of the royal court is too volatile for any long-term plan to be justifiable. 

Still, the patrols were merciless. There was nary a moment where the entire outside premises wasn't being monitored, which made it even more difficult to track the guard rotations on the inside of the chateau. 

Jaemin manages to find a blind spot after just three days of stakeout ("Child's play, really," he had said); a measly fifteen minute gap in which there were no guards to watch them pry open a window on the third floor. From there it's just a matter of getting to where they need to be, which right now is an unknown variable. Xiaojun's rumor had only mentioned documents related to the propagation and healing of vampiric diseases being housed in the royal library, but the royal library might as well be a rumor in itself. Said to house documents older than anyone currently alive remembers, it probably wouldn't be inaccurate to say it was under the tightest security in the chateau—if it existed at all. 

They agree, though, that if the library is anywhere on the property, it's probably underground. Right now, the four of them—Renjun, Jaemin, Xiaojun, and himself—were squeezed together in a small broom closet, three floors above where they need to be. It's horribly dusty.

"Don't take any unnecessary risks," Yuta whispers to them before they continue with their infiltration. "We're not here to make a scene. If you must kill, make sure you hide the body well."

"We know, hyung," Jaemin says. "We're not fledglings anymore. You can trust us to do this." 

Yuta flicks him on the forehead, Jaemin just barely muffling his cry of pain. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt." 

It's not that Yuta doesn't trust them; no, the warning comes from a place of deep attachment, even if he'd be hard pressed to admit it if anyone asked. They're more important to him than they know. 

They leave in pairs, Xiaojun going with Renjun and Yuta pairing with Jaemin. The goal right now is to regroup on the ground floor and make it to the underground antechamber. They wait fifteen minutes after they leave before following suit.

They're light footed enough to dodge around corners without being heard, following the trail of gashes in the wall left behind by Renjun so Yuta would know where they went. The chateau layout is fairly straightforward, and they make it to the main staircase undetected fairly quickly. It's wide and circular, with gilded railings and a center drop that has to be at least twenty feet to the bottom. 

Together they creep down as quickly as possible (which isn't very). Yuta has half a mind to just continue down to the third floor, but as soon as they reach the second floor landing, he sees a small 'x' carved into the frame of a painting at the other end of the room. Jaemin sees it too, and all Yuta can do is shrug in response to his questioning look. If that's where Renjun and Xiaojun went, they had to follow.

However, the moment they step fully onto the second floor, footsteps are heard coming towards them. Grabbing Jaemin's wrist, he dives beneath the undercroft of the staircase, pressing their bodies as close together as possible. 

Too tense to breathe, he realizes in the silence that what he thought was a single pair of footsteps was actually two. Closer and closer they get, and he doesn't think he can be any physically closer to Jaemin. 

"...A little creepy now that the chateau is so silent," a voice carries over. "Like death is waiting just around the corner." Yuta can't even grin at the irony of that, because as soon as the guard finishes saying it, heavy black boots and equally dark pants come into his vision, obscuring the view of the second floor hall. They're close enough to touch, but they haven't been noticed.

"I know, right?" another voice says. Jaemin's hand instinctively moves towards the dagger sheathed around his waist, but Yuta puts a hand on his wrist before he can draw it. Patience is a virtue, after all.

"I know Taeyong likes to take his sojourns away from the court, but he didn't even tell the headmaster where he was going this time. That can only spell trouble."

The other guard scoffs. "Hot headed, as usual. If he thinks he can just shirk his responsibilities because Kun isn't around to protect him, he's got another thing coming to him." There's a hum of agreement, and they fall silent. Jaemin looks at him with wide eyes, but the guards exchange brief farewells afterwards, their footsteps disappearing in opposite directions. 

"Hyung," Jaemin whispers as soon as the coast is deemed clear, "I didn't know Taeyong had disappeared. How long has he been gone?" 

"I don't know anymore than you do," he tells him. "We can talk about it later. We should find Renjun and Xiaojun first."

They follow Renjun's markers past the painting, down another hall and into what appears to be a large study. Engraved onto the corner of a large desk is a crude circle; code for there being no patrol routes headed this way. Beside him, Jaemin lets out a breath.

"What's with this detour?" he asks, voice still low. We could've just gone straight down."

Yuta's wondering the same thing. The answer comes in the form of a note left on the desk, the messy scrawl of Xiaojun's handwriting indicating that they were in a hurry. He reads it aloud for Jaemin.

"Guards may have spotted us, Renjun and I split. Continue as planned." 

Jaemin nods with furrowed brows, and Yuta crushes up the note and stuffs it into his pocket. 

Retracing their steps, they make it to the ground level without any more hiccups. The patrol rotation here is a lot more intensive, as expected, and from where they're crouched they can see the wide hall leading into the ballroom blocked off with a velvet divider. For a moment Yuta thinks the bouquet of blood is strong enough to make it all the way to where they are, but decides he must have imagined it. Now's not the time. 

The library is housed just under the chateau's southwest watchtower, and that's where they move. It takes a long time for Yuta to find an opening in the guards' lines of sight, and he's just about to retreat to find another way when there's a crash from somewhere a distance away from them and the patrols in the foyer clear all at once. 

"That'll be Renjun," Jaemin whispers, and lo and behold they find the man of the hour sitting cross-legged on a desk in the watchtower. He hops off as soon as he sees them, striding over to a pair of wooden doors built into the stone. 

"Renjun will catch up," is the only thing Xiaojun says. Yuta hadn't considered any other outcome. 

The cellar door that opens up to a rickety old staircase is heavy, but they manage to lift it quietly enough to make their escape downstairs. It's nearly pitch black, with only the dull lighting of electric lamps somewhere farther down creeping its way up the stone walls.

The atmosphere of the library hall is predictably old, dusty, and just damp enough for it to be uncomfortable. Beside him, Xiaojun sneezes several times in a row.

"Felt that," Jaemin comments. 

"We should split up too," Yuta announces. "That way we can cover more ground. If the royal family does have any valuable information on curing vampiric diseases, it's bound to be here." 

They all agree, turning down different aisles to scour the premises. Considering these shelves are twice Yuta's height, he can't understand the lack of labels on any of them. He brushes a hand over the spines as he walks, galled at how thick the layer of dust that comes off on his fingers is. He wonders how long it's been since anyone has come down here—maybe the information in these books is so obsolete that organizing them is no longer worth it.

He plucks a book at random, a leather-bound one with a completely blank front cover. The text inside is completely handwritten in script so elegant and flowery he genuinely can't make out any of the words. He puts it back on the shelf, picking out a few more books as he walks down the row and getting similar results.

He finds himself getting lost in the ambience as he repeats the process down the next two aisles—though the air is stale, the flickering flame of the torches and the orange glow they cast all around them is undoubtedly warm and inviting. 

From around the corner, Xiaojun's head peeks into the aisle. 

"Are you finding anything, hyung?" he asks, suppressing another sneeze. Yuta shakes his head.

"All of these books are unintelligible," he tells him, gesturing vaguely around him.

"Same here," Xiaojun says, suddenly appearing behind him. "I'm not even sure they're supposed to be legible."

A disappointed look comes across Renjun's face. "I'm in the same boat, hyung. I'm not really sure where to go from here." 

Yuta's heart sinks a little at that, but he tries not to show it. 

"We can still keep looking," he says. "There might—"

His words are cut off by the sound of muffled screaming and a steady thump, thump, thump approaching them. They all share a look before scrambling.

There are hardly any places to actually hide, so he settles for crouching behind one of the wooden shelves, knife drawn. 

The muffled shouts grow louder and louder until he can hear it clearly from the other side of the shelf, where it stops. The harsh shuffling of cloth tells him that whoever it is, they're putting up a fight. He wants to spring out and see who it is, but he can see Xiaojun trying to make himself invisible around a corner, so he stays put. 

"Xiaojun? Yuta-hyung?" Renjun's voice calls, and all of the tension in Yuta's body leaves at once. 

"Renjunnie?" Yuta answers him, stepping into the other corridor. Renjun is holding a young lady in a deadly chokehold, her mouth duct taped shut while she scrapes at his arm to let her go. "You made it after all."

Renjun's face is flushed at the exertion of keeping her still. "I got a little lost," he says, incongruously sheepish. "One of the servant girls—she saw me, so I brought her here." The thundering of her heart in her chest is loud enough to tell everyone in the room that she's a human; probably the only one at work in a castle full of vampires, poor girl. "What should I do with her?"

"Kill her," Jaemin says easily as he steps forward from the shadows. The girl freezes in Renjun's grasp. "She's seen too much, now. We can't let her live."

"He's right Junnie," Xiaojun agrees. They all look to Yuta then, seeking his final word on the statement. 

Nobody would admit it, but Renjun always tended to get cold feet on the subject of cold-blooded killing; it's why he always preferred contracts that never went beyond espionage or breaking and entering. His soft heart is a liability that'll get him in trouble one day, but for now, Yuta's feeling a little lenient. 

"We'll drain her," he decides. She'll still die, but at least Renjun won't be the one putting the knife to her throat. "It's been a while since we've all fed, anyway. Knock her out and leave her here. We can come back for her later." 

Jaemin doesn't hesitate to show off his little pressure point trick that has the girl's eyes rolling to the back of her head and her body slumping in Renjun's grasp. He props her up against the bookshelf carefully after tying her hands and legs together with zip ties. 

Yuta gives Renjun the run down of the library and its illegible books. His brows furrow at that last part, and his face lights up with recognition after flipping through one of them. 

"This is a decoy library," he announces. "My family back in Jilin had one of these, in case anyone ever caught on that they were hoarding old familial treatises for blackmail. These books," he waves one in the air pointedly, "Aren't meant to be read at all. They're just here to look pretty, which almost certainly means that there's something hidden in here somewhere." 

If Taeil were here, Yuta thinks, he would have made some quip about a show or video game he's never heard of, and the pang of longing that hits him weighs him down while they search the library for any hidden doors. 

Yuta's about to give up and call this entire operation a fluke when the squeak of a mouse catches his attention, a sound so faint he almost thinks he's just hearing things. It comes again from somewhere above him, and his eyes trail up the concrete walls and stop at a section of breezeblocks that are just slightly misaligned with the surrounding wall. 

Bingo. 

As it would turn out, concrete blocks are incredibly heavy, which is demonstrated quite well when Xiaojun pulls one free and nearly drops it on his foot. Together, they dismantle the rest of the wall to reveal a crevice just barely wide enough to walk through. 

"After me," Yuta tells them, drawing his blade out of habit. The others do the same. "Keep your wits about you. Don't know what we'll find." 

It's an uncomfortable fit, somehow more musky than the decoy library and carrying just as much dust. If he squeals at the sound of a rat running over his foot, nobody mentions it. 

The small crevice dumps them out into a wider tunnel, one that looks strikingly familiar to the ones that lay beneath the hangar. The look they all cast each other tells him the same thought crossed all of their minds, too. Yuta doubts they connect, but it's likely they were built by the same people. 

Unlike the labyrinth Yuta is familiar with, however, this one is far more straightforward--a one-way and relatively well-maintained passage with walls that don't appear as if they'll crumble at any moment. Xiaojun holds up his torch above his head, but the light doesn't reach the ceiling. The sound of their footsteps reverberate all around them as they press forward. 

Eventually, the tunnel opens up into what looks like a dome-shaped crypt, this one boasting pristine limestone walls and a ceiling at least twice as high as the room before. All of them freeze in awe at the beautiful white stone, their footsteps echoing throughout the chamber easily. 

"What the hell," Jaemin murmurs under his breath. Yuta agrees. 

Massive paintings line either side of the walls all the way down the hall, most of them with stone reliefs that have brief lineage histories engraved into them. A select few have accompanying statuettes of the subjects and their families, while others have pedestals with large leather-bound books resting on top of them. 

"What is this place?" Xiaojun asks, stepping forward to brush a finger over one of the paintings. A thin layer of paint peels off at the touch.

"It's a museum of the royal family's lineage," Yuta tells them. As the last word exits his mouth, He suddenly becomes aware of the unnatural chill that lay heavy in the crypt. He suppresses a shiver as the hair on his arms raise.

Jaemin clicks his tongue, an expression not unlike a child giddy that he got away with theft might have painting his features. "Methinks the royal family wouldn't have all of this buried a kajillion feet underground unless they had something to hide." 

You have no idea, Yuta thinks to himself. "Let's not lose track of what we're here for." 

None of them mention that they don't even rightly know what they're looking for. Xiaojun's rumor is one Yuta had heard before, but there had never been any further evidence to prove its veracity. 

Yuta himself knew that the chateau had its doctors and physicians, but it's highly improbable that they had authored the kind of obscure medical material they needed to help Taeil. Vampires are immortal, after all--there weren't any illnesses that could befall them that couldn't be cured in the same way a human would. 

When it's the other way around, though—that's where they're stumped. As far as Yuta knows, there's never been any documented record of humans contracting diseases from vampires. Yuta can admit that he's far from the most educated person he knows, but he's picked up enough in this lifetime to know that there's next to no formal research done on cross contamination between humans and vampires. He doesn't know if that's even the cause of Taeil's ailment, but Renjun had been right when he said he's running out of options.

With that they split up, searching for any old memos or journals that Xiaojun thinks can lead them in the right direction. Some of the stone reliefs are a bit hard to read, and some of them he can't read at all. His Chinese was better back in the day, but luckily he has two people here than can dictate for him. As he works his way down the chamber, he realizes that all of these mini-biographies are organized in chronological order. Yuta recognizes most of them, more than he expected to. 

At some point he comes to a portrait of a face he hasn't seen in years, and his heart seizes up in his chest. As much as all he's ever wanted was to forget, the cruel brown eyes that peer back down at him are familiar enough that he just might be able to convince himself that the man in the painting had been alive as recently as yesterday. 

Logically, he knows that isn't true. Kim Junmyeon has been dead for longer than most people Yuta knows have even been alive. Even back when he did walk this earth, he had always been a person that preferred to keep to the background, taking great pains not to rock the boat in the stormy ocean that was the vampire socio-political scene. Yuta hated himself for it back then, and he still hates himself for it now—but in truth, he admired the way Junmyeon was able to put up such a flawless veneer of amiability and kindness, when after a time he was anything but.

That was a long time ago now, though. Yuta forces himself to take a deep breath, and it's then that he realizes Junmyeon's portrait is one of the few boasting a large book on a pedestal. 

This one is legible, thankfully, and it's on the first page that he finds that it's actually an autobiography. Unlike other vampires of that time, Kim Junmyeon's handwriting was made of immaculate, blocky letters. He liked to stand out in his own way, Yuta supposes. 

He's surprised at how wrapped up he gets in Junmyeon's recounts of his time in the royal court as one of the then-king's right hand. Some of it is familiar, but most of it isn't. He details names and places Yuta hasn't thought about in decades, and the memories come flowing back more vivid than he would have expected of himself. 

He's about to close the book to take back to the hangar, when something in the next passage catches his eye. 

The boy, Nakamoto Yuta—he's meek, but strong. I know he will persevere, even if all he does is cry and stare listlessly at the walls. Junmyeon writes. He's astute. There's only ever been intelligence behind those watery eyes. Even in Busan--

Yuta shuts the book a little harder than necessary, his will to read on suddenly taking a nosedive. He gets that familiar pre-vomit tingle just at the base of his throat, but suppresses it. 

"Guys?" Renjun's voice jerks him out of his fugue. "I think I might've found something useful."

It's an unauthored and unpublished paper—although that's giving it a bit more credit than is due. It appears to be little more than a jargon-filled scrawl of notes that have been stitched together over the course of what seems like many years based on the dates. There are sections where pages have been torn out, and a couple where new ones have been stitched in haphazardly. It's not old enough to crumble in his hands, but the texture is odd, unnatural.

Renjun draws their attention to a subheading composed of scientific patois with enough buzzwords that look like it might help them. Scanning through it, it appears to be a short history on vampiric ailments, and Yuta decides that maybe the god machine is on their side after all. It'll probably take some time to translate the author's messy scrawl and technical language, but it's a start. 

He's not sure what he had been expecting when they finally return home, but his heart has been hammering in his chest all the way back to the hangar. The tension only begins to lift when he finds Taeil reclining on their bed playing on Hendery's old 3DS. He looks up when Yuta enters, smiling that smile that makes him think that it's okay if he can't go out in direct sunlight, because Taeil outshines the sun any day regardless. 

"You're back," he says brightly. "I just caught this Ponyta. Aren't they so cool?" 

"I'm sure your Ponyta is really fucking cool, Taeil, but right now I just want to hug you to death." Yuta says, not even bothering to take off his boots before jumping onto the bed and crushing Taeil's body with his own. Love really is a weird thing; the way just the feeling of another body against his own can make it seem like there is nothing wrong in the world, nor had there ever been. 

Taeil just laughs, letting the 3DS fall to the floor and returning Yuta's embrace. "I missed you, too." 

"How are you feeling?" 

"The same as when you asked me four hours ago before you left," Taeil answers. Yuta tuts at him.

"I don't know, a little birdie told me that you haven't even been eating lately," he says, lifting a hand to brush a few stray locks of hair that fall into Taeil's face. God, he is so beautiful. 

"What if I said I feel better now that you're here?" he offers with a playful smile. "I know you're a narcissist, deep down." 

"If I was really a narcissist, you wouldn't have been on my mind for the entire operation," Yuta tells him softly. He knows Taeil was only joking, but it's the truth. 

Taeil's gaze turns into something soft. He leans in to nuzzle Yuta's cheek, asking for a kiss, and he gives it to him. It's slow and warm, and by the time they part, he feels thoroughly inebriated off of Taeil's affection alone. 

"Did the others make it back okay?" he asks Yuta. 

"They did. We brought back a human—it's been a while since they've fed, so I figured it'd be good for them." 

Taeil nods, then fixes him with an odd look. "Are you not hungry? You haven't asked to feed in a while." 

"I can't feed from you while you're sick, Taeil. You need your strength." 

"So do you," he throws back, eyes still soft. "There isn't a lot I wouldn't give to you if you asked, you know." 

Yuta does know that, even if he pretends not to. He doubts that Taeil hasn't noticed how difficult it's been for him to sleep recently, one of the early warning signs of starvation. The next rung on the ladder is inexplicable anxiousness, followed by delirium, and everything afterwards is just varying stages of his body shutting down. As much as vampires liked to brag about their own tenacity, Yuta knows how frail and vulnerable they become without a steady source of blood. 

Taeil's only ever seen him at that final stage once, and he hopes he never has to again. 

"Then...Can I?" Yuta asks. When Taeil nods, Yuta sits up so he has room to take off his shirt. 

He only flinches a little when Yuta sinks his teeth into the space just between his collarbone and the base of his throat, his fingers scratching at Yuta's spine where his arms are wrapped around his torso. 

He'd never admit it, but some of his favorite moments with Taeil are when Yuta is feeding from him. Most people would balk at his willingness to let a vampire take his blood, but despite how one-sided it may seem, their relationship is a partnership of equals, and he doesn't think they could get any more intimate if they tried. 

Tenderness floods his system when the first rush of blood gushes into his mouth, and Yuta lets himself get carried away in the feeling. Taeil's body relaxes beneath him as he drinks, one hand coming up to comb through Yuta's hair gently while he sucks at the skin of his neck. 

He finds that Taeil's eyes have fallen shut when he finally lifts his head. They flutter open slowly, and he offers Yuta a heady smile. 

"Are you okay?" Yuta asks him. Taeil raises a hand to brush against Yuta's bottom lip, and his fingers come away stained a deep red. 

"Always," he responds, and a different kind of warmth fills him at the huskiness of his voice. It always does that after Yuta feeds from him, but somehow it never fails to affect him as strongly as it does. He isn't in the mood for sex right now, though. Instead, he just tugs at Yuta's shirt until he's facing him on his side, arms around Yuta's waist. 

"I love you," Taeil says into his chest. 

"I love you, too," Yuta says into the crown of his head. 

They lay there for some time, Yuta content to just soak up Taeil's body heat and listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

Yuta loves these moments best. Like this, it's easier to pretend that everything is okay, that all their problems have magically sorted themselves out and they can just be together in each other's arms and breathe. 

It's nice—so nice that Yuta nearly falls asleep, but Taeil taps his side lightly when his eyes start drooping.

"I forgot to say," he starts, "One of Jaehyun's little birdies came earlier. I guess he wants something again."

That grabs Yuta's attention. "Does he?"

Taeil rolls over and reaches somewhere on the far end of the dresser to retrieve a neatly folded roll of paper. "I was so surprised this time. He sent pigeons or other small carrier birds before, you know? I swear it was a hawk this time. I thought it was going to peck my eyes out."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Yuta says absently, sitting up to read the letter. It's long winded and needlessly flowery, as it usually is. It's been a while since Yuta has had any correspondence with him, but luckily he hasn't lost his ability to decipher what is indeed a commission request as well as a veiled threat. He frowns. 

"Are you gonna humor him?" Taeil asks, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Yuta covers it with his own.

"He's offering a lot, but he also knows the guillotine he's hanging over my head."

"He's always been ruthless. You know that." 

Yuta does, and he knows it shouldn't be as upsetting as it is. Jaehyun is offering them a lot of money; money Yuta wouldn't even know what to do with. It would be ludicrous for him not to accept, and Taeil agrees when he tells him as much. 

"Will you make it a personal job?" 

"No," Yuta decides after a few moments. "I want to stay here with you." The question of who hangs heavy in the air. 

Jaemin doesn't like spywork, and Xiaojun doesn't possess the subtlety needed for the job. He thinks Renjun would do a fine job, but something about him…

"Where's Yangyang?" 

"Out taming those wild horses still," Taeil says with mild exasperation. "Or maybe lying dead in the field somewhere after an attempt." A pause. "Are you sure you want him out there? This seems like delicate work." 

Yangyang was young and brash, but his enthusiasm was genuine enough for it to be the perfect facade to hide behind. The more Yuta thinks about it, the more he's certain that he'd be perfect for the job. 

"Definitely," Yuta tells him. "If there's anyone who'll be able to keep Jaehyun on his toes, it's Liu Yangyang."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the god machine is an english translation of the latin phrase deus ex machina  
> chapter 2 song rec: [colde - love is a flower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdzsMmtErzE)
> 
> twitter: sputnikmp3


	3. Chapter 3

Doyoung hardly sleeps when he's safe and sound back home, and the sun is rising by the time he finally comes to a decision.

He's going to become a vampire hunter.

Not a real vampire hunter—at least he hopes it doesn't come to that—but he doesn't think he'll be able to live with himself if he just sits back and hopes Johnny's being spirited away magically resolves itself. Taeyong had been generous in offering him an alternate route, and he isn't going to let this chance go to waste. 

The limousine that had picked him and Johnny up had been paid for by Kun himself, and Doyoung finds out the hard way that there aren't very many taxi companies willing to venture into vampire territory. 

Well—'territory' is putting it a bit harshly, but it's not exactly inaccurate. There were many people who didn't even consider the region just outside of Seoul as a city itself just by virtue of the fact that it was primarily populated by vampires, but their extensive plumbing systems, vast housing communities, and localized monarchy say otherwise. 

Regardless, the taboo is still there, and it's a solid hour and a half before Doyoung finds anyone willing to drive him up to the royal chateau. It costs an arm and a leg, but he does manage it eventually, and he also manages to return to their designated meeting spot without any further hiccups.

Initially, Doyoung wonders if this is some kind of elaborate joke, because the only other living creature he sees by the cabin is a very tall and very menacing clydesdale. It's completely black save for a tinge of white hair around its hooves, and he doesn't know what light could possibly be reflecting in the huge, dark eyes that stare back at him. It whinnies softly, scuffing one of its hooves into the ground threateningly. Doyoung isn't sure if he's more frightened than perplexed, but out of the corner of his eye a figure peeks out from behind a tree.

"You showed up," Taeyong says without a hint of surprise in his voice. 

"Sorry if I kept you waiting," Doyoung responds absently, hardly even sparing him a glance. "What's with the horse?"

"The horse is our preferred mode of transport," Taeyong tells him, stepping out from behind the wood completely. "As our destination isn't very fond of modern vehicles, unfortunately. Do you know how to ride?"

"No," Doyoung tells him, but Taeyong is already grabbing his wrist and tugging him towards the ominous beast. He lifts Doyoung's hand to rest on the horse's side, and it stamps its back hoof into the dirt in response. He only flinches a little. 

"Are you still sure you want to come with? There's no turning back from here, Doyoung-ssi." 

"I've already made my decision," Doyoung affirms quickly before he can talk himself into changing his mind. He turns to look at Taeyong so he knows he means it. Like the horse, he isn't sure what light is being reflected in his gaze, but he holds it anyway. Taeyong nods.

It takes a lot more upper body strength than he had anticipated to mount a horse, but he manages it eventually under Taeyong's semi-amused, semi-exasperated gaze. The saddle is harder than expected and he's far too close to Taeyong than he's comfortable with, but he doesn't seem to care, not even when his grip around his upper arms becomes bruising as the horse takes off through the forest. 

Jung Jaehyun's home is so vastly different from his expectations that Doyoung thinks he's hallucinating. 

Seriously—if trekking through a dark and sinister forest on a horse in the middle of the night seemed completely out of this world to him, the literal castle built on a large piece of flat land jutting out into a lake makes him think he's in a fucking Ghibli movie. 

The building is large and magnanimous, its uniform gray stone accented with mahogany wood so deep in color the whole building takes on an almost woeful appearance. The way the roofs curl at the edges remind him of something out of a medieval fantasy novel, standing tall, proud, and intimidating--maybe even magical. Something resembling a small, untamed orchard paints the surrounding with vibrant sakuras and camellias, with a dirt path loosely lined with stone cutting through it leading towards the castle.

Taeyong brings the horse to a stop at a stone bridge, motioning for Doyoung to get off. The thing is, just getting onto the horse had been an ordeal in itself, not to mention the fact that his legs felt like they were about to fall off from the discomfort of the correct rider's posture alone. Still, he manages it by the time Taeyong is done tying the horse's lead rope around one of the bridge's palisades. 

"Do humans even know this place exists?" Doyoung asks when they start across the bridge. "It looks ancient." Doyoung isn't actually looking up at the castle--instead he's admiring the soft petals floating serenely in the water, a thin stroke of gentle pink against deep blue. 

Taeyong on the other hand has his eyes firmly set on their destination at the end of the bridge. "Your government probably knows. I'm sure you've picked up on the separation of our affairs, though, however tacit the agreement."

That he has. "Would it be rude if I took photos?" Doyoung's phone is about to die, but he might as well use the last thirty minutes of battery life on something worthwhile. Documenting history, or something.

Taeyong fixes him with an odd look, something he thinks is between offense and puzzlement. "It's probably for the best you don't." 

Okay, don't share any secrets of the vampire world with his friends once he gets back home. Noted. 

They come to a large pair of double doors boasting a steel knocker in the shape of a wolf's head baring its teeth. The metal is spotless, like the wind and rain hasn't touched it at all. Taeyong knocks. 

Enough time passes that Doyoung doesn't think anyone is going to answer, but Taeyong is staring resolutely at the door, as if the intensity of his gaze will cause it to open on its own. 

He supposes he's proven right though, when the doors open up to reveal a man wearing a subdued floral suit. That's the first thing that draws Doyoung's attention, anyway; the second thing is how startlingly handsome he is, with bleached hair flawlessly parted and a chiseled jawline that gives him an almost western-style beauty. He looks to be around Doyoung's age, but he knows that that's mostly meaningless. 

"This is a surprise," the man says, and his gaze slides over to Doyoung, giving him a full once-over that makes his hair stand on end. "And you've brought a guest." 

"This is Kim Doyoung," Taeyong introduces him. "I'm sorry to come on such short notice, Jaehyun, but I didn't know who else to come to." 

Jaehyun waves a hand and steps aside to allow them into the castle. "You know you're always welcome here, Taeyong, even under normal circumstances." 

"So, you've heard?" Taeyong asks. 

"I was a witness."

"You were there, and you didn't come see me?" 

"You know how I feel about being a sycophant," Jaehyun says. "Kun doesn't need to see me bend a knee to know he has my loyalty. Either way, I had hoped to catch you after the ceremony, but…" he trails off there, and Doyoung agrees that there's no need to say anymore. 

They're led through a wide, ostentatiously decorated foyer and then into a relatively austere candle-lit parlor. The immediate shift from polished silver and velvet carpet to the dull-toned and modest room is almost disorienting, but decidedly welcomed. Jaehyun gestures for them to take a seat.

"I'll be back with drinks," he says, politely excusing himself.

"Water is fine, please," Doyoung tells him before he goes. He picks a single person loveseat that catches almost all of the moonlight pouring in from the window. Taeyong curls up at the far end of a couch directly opposite him, one shrouded in darkness. 

"Humans always sit in the light," Taeyong comments. He's watching Doyoung intently, the light from the candles catching in his eyes. 

Doyoung shrugs in response. "It can be a bit of an acquired taste, but it's not so bad. You should try it some time."

"Ha." 

A few moments of silence pass. Doyoung gives up on etiquette, taking off his shoes and folding up his legs cross-legged in the seat, and the muscles in his legs sing Hallelujah. 

Jaehyun comes back with a tall glass of water and two steaming mugs carried on a platter. He takes a seat at the end of the couch opposite of Taeyong. 

"Now that we're all settled," Jaehyun begins, "Might I ask why you're here?"

"Will you kick me out if I say no?" Taeyong deadpans, and Doyoung doesn't realize it's supposed to be a joke until Jaehyun shoots him a warm smile.

"Would you actually leave if I did?" he shoots back.

It's Taeyong's turn to smile at that, and Doyoung gets the awful feeling that he's third wheeling right now. "No, I probably wouldn't," He stares into his mug for a few moments before speaking again. "It's...not safe for me at the chateau right now. Kun was assassinated in his own home. I'd really not hang around the council while everyone is on edge like that." 

Jaehyun props one leg up on another, picture-perfect poise. It unsettles something in Doyoung's core. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here, did you?" 

Taeyong is silent for a moment, obviously not expecting Jaehyun's shrewdness. He sighs. "No. I didn't. But you know how they are—they're dogs, Jaehyun. They'll eat me alive. Kun was the last person there who didn't..." He trails off there, and Doyoung doesn't know why he tenses.

Jaehyun looks like he has more questions, but he doesn't ask any of them. "You can plan your next moves here for as long as you like, Taeyong. You know I'll always be there to support you." 

"Thank you, Jaehyun." Taeyong doesn't really look appeased by his answer, but he tries for a smile that comes out somewhat bitter anyway.

Jaehyun's gaze suddenly turns to Doyoung, and once again he's violently reminded that he is, in fact, the unfortunate owner of a mortal coil after all. He tries not to make it obvious how hard he's trying to keep his breathing under control. 

"And what about you, Doyoung-ssi? I'm not sure I remember the last time a human was a guest here." 

Doyoung looks to Taeyong for assistance, but he's staring back into his mug again, apparently checked out from the conversation. 

"I was at the chateau, when the king—Kun, I mean, was assassinated. My friend was kidnapped in the chaos afterward, and Taeyong told me he would help me find him."

Jaehyun perks up at that. "Oh? It's not often that vampires bring human guests."

"Johnny is a human," he clarifies, and Jaehyun's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before returning to his original reticent expression. He takes note of the way he unfolds his legs and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"You don't mean Johnny Suh, do you?" 

"He does," Taeyong finally speaks up, and they both turn to look at him. "Doyoung swears that he survived the night, and I figured if there's anyone that would have kidnapped him, it would be the same people that killed Kun. So…" 

Jaehyun's eyes flit between them once, twice, and then he nods, suddenly understanding something. "You're not running away from home," he states matter-of-factly. "You're out for vengeance." 

It's just as he says it that Doyoung finally realizes why Jaehyun is so oddly unnerving—it's because he isn't breathing. The normal cadence of a chest rising and falling is completely absent from his person, and really, that mystery finally being solved doesn't really put Doyoung at ease. 

Doyoung is hardly at all familiar with vampire physiology. The immortality and the fangs he knows, yes, but all of the other things that come with being undead are all but completely unknown to him. 

Glancing over at Taeyong, Doyoung sees that at least he's breathing. Kun had looked pretty alive in the few minutes he had spent with him, too.

"Well, it could be both," Taeyong quips with a small smile. "But yes, it's mostly vengeance. I owe Kun that much. The gentry is going to be too busy fighting for political power than trying to bring our killer into justice." 

"Such is the nature of the Game," Jaehyun says somberly. "It's definitely a reckless course of action, but I'm not going to be the one to stop you." 

There's that name again, the Game. Doyoung opens his mouth to ask what it is, but he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze slides just to the left of Jaehyun's shoulder, and just outside of the doorway is a young boy peeking in shyly. He flees on silent feet when Doyoung makes eye contact with him.

"Um," Doyoung interrupts. "Is there anyone else in the castle with us?" 

Jaehyun gives him a questioning look before it's replaced with understanding. "That must be Donghyuck," he explains. "Poor boy. I found him half-dead by the stables at the chateau that night. Someone had tried to drain him, but didn't quite finish the job." 

"You took him under your wing?" Taeyong asks, incredulous. "He probably had a family, you know." 

"He's dead to his family, now, and I wasn't about to leave him to be trampled by the horses. I'm not as cruel as those aristocrats." 

It takes a moment for Doyoung to put two and two together. "Are you guys talking about the other human that was at the wedding?" 

"He is no longer human, but yes, we're probably thinking of the same person." 

Doyoung can imagine it; a lone human in a crowd of vampires that consider him cattle being singled out, dragged away to certain death while everybody else is fleeing for their lives. The boy looked so young, too; how could he have fought back? Was there really no-one to look after him? 

He brushes away the questions that go unanswered, knowing that there's ultimately no use dwelling on them. He's only left with one thought afterward, and it has ice crawling up his veins. 

_That could have been me._

"But why?" he finds himself asking. 

"You probably couldn't tell, but there were patrons practically drooling over you and Johnny—and probably Donghyuck as well," Taeyong explains.

"For all that they put on airs of sophistication, the gentry can be quite barbaric if they know they could get away with it," Jaehyun adds, and Doyoung is completely baffled at the supposed lack of civility at an event so ostensibly refined—the contrast is hard to wrap his head around.

He can't help but look around him then, at the pristine candelabrum lighting up the room and the expensive looking silk curtains pulled to the side of the window, and suddenly Jaehyun's hospitality has alarms going off in his head.

"Can I use your bathroom?" he asks, standing in a rush.

"Of course," Jaehyun says, feathers seemingly unruffled at the subject matter. "It's down the hall, second door on the left." 

The nausea doesn't really fade once he gets a few splashes of cold water on his face, but it does end up soaking the bandage on his cheek, seeping into the still-open wound just under it. He decides to just tear it from his skin; it's old now anyway, the cloth stained a vibrant pink. 

Looking at it in the mirror, he's startled at how ugly the wound really is. The flesh of his inner cheek is visible, red and mangled, and it's definitely going to leave a nasty scar once it's healed. If it heals. 

His gaze travels up to his own eyes, and it's difficult to comprehend that the person looking back at him is himself. All of this was so surreal—even the expensive hand towels hanging behind him looked like they would disappear if he looked at them for long enough. 

They don't though, instead doing their completely expected job of drying the water from his face. Just as he steps out of the bathroom, he finds the boy—Donghyuck, he corrects himself—is standing in the hall, looking equal parts apprehensive and sheepish. 

"Hi there," Doyoung says awkwardly. There's enough light now that he can see his face clearly. He doesn't look a day over eighteen. 

"I saw you at the wedding," Donghyuck states. "You were with Taeyong, and someone else I didn't know." 

Doyoung feels puzzled at how confident he sounds, but even though they're making eye contact, Donghyuck's voice comes out as if somebody else was talking through him. Here, but not really here.

"That was probably Johnny," he tells the boy.

Donghyuck puts a foot forward, then retracts it, like he doesn't know if he's allowed to be in his space or not. "I was looking for you—I had overheard someone talking about another human, and then I saw you there with the king and the others. I wanted to say hi, but then Taeyong stole you away." 

He's fiddling with his fingers nervously while he talks, but there's an unmistakable defiance in his eyes. Doyoung doesn't know what he's protesting. "I had been looking for you, too." 

"I wonder if things would have been different if we had found each other?" He shuffles forward just a little as he says it, and Doyoung takes pity on him, bridging the gap between them to something more casual. He's not sure what makes him ask what he does, but he feels like he has to.

"What happened to you?" The words come out tentative, like Donghyuck should be handled with care. 

He doesn't respond for a few moments, and Doyoung watches with rising panic as his face starts to turn red and his eyes become watery. 

"Is it possible—" Donghyuck cuts himself off, takes a breath, then tries again; "Is it possible for you to understand what it's like? To have your entire autonomy stripped from you in the span of a few minutes?" There's a hollowness as he says it, like he's speaking objectively of someone else's experience, and it completely disarms him. 

"I...I don't. I'm sorry." His voice doesn't sound like it's coming from his own body. Donghyuck just barely nods, shoulders suddenly sagging.

"I felt so powerless." 

Doyoung can't stand it anymore. He pulls Donghyuck into a light embrace, and though Doyoung expects him to pull away, all he does is tense up slightly, not relaxing even when he tightens his grip.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asks after a few moments, and it's then that Donghyuck pulls away. He shakes his head once, blinking away tears from his eyes, and then he's disappearing down the hall and around the corner on hurried feet. 

He's emotionally exhausted when he returns to the parlor. Jaehyun and Taeyong are standing close together, talking in low voices almost conspiratorially. Both of their heads whip towards him as he enters. 

Doyoung is about to apologize for interrupting, but Taeyong breaks away from him immediately at the sight of the wounds on his cheek. He brings a hand to cup his face carefully, turning his head to the side to get a better look at it. 

"This isn't healing so well," he says gravely. "Does it still hurt?" 

"It does," Doyoung tells him; at least it did just a few moments ago when he had been standing in the hall. Right now all his nervous system can really process is Taeyong's proximity to him. The horseback ride hadn't made him feel nearly as flushed as this. 

Completely unsurprisingly, Jaehyun's manor contains built-in infirmary. He lets Taeyong tend to the gashes on his face there while Jaehyun goes to prepare their rooms for the night. He has access to more sophisticated medical equipment here, so he's much more meticulous this time around, cleaning it thoroughly and applying various chemicals that sort of smell like alcohol, but not quite. 

"These are going to need stitches," he tells Doyoung, the first words he's spoken in the last ten minutes while he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, the gleam of sewing needles on a small tray beside him twinkle menacingly. He swallows and tries not to feel nervous.

"And I suppose you know how to do that, too?"

Taeyong hums an affirmative, gesturing for him to scoot closer. The first prick of the needle stings, but he tries to keep his focus on the wall behind him, or the floor, or anything but the hands holding his face gently. He works quietly, and Doyoung finds he's okay with the silence. 

"Jaehyun isn't like the others, you know," Taeyong says after a time, sitting back to examine his progress. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, he left the royal council for a reason. He isn't going to steal you away in the night and suck you dry, like what happened to that boy."

That irks something in Doyoung, and he speaks before considering the harshness of his tone. "His name is Donghyuck." 

Taeyong fixes him with a look, raising an eyebrow. "Feeling protective?" 

"I don't have to be feeling protective for me to use his name." Taeyong does that thing again where he's visibly searching for something in Doyoung's expression, and again, he isn't sure whether or not he finds it. 

"Do you pity him, Kim Doyoung?" he asks, punctuating the question with the sewing needle's puncture. "Is being a vampire such a horrible, disgusting thing that you would regret his new existence?" His tone is almost aggressively nonchalant, and Doyoung recognizes that he's treading on thin ice. He isn't sure where it's going to break. 

"It's not the fact that he's a vampire," he says carefully. "It's just...the violence of it all. He looks like a teenager, Taeyong—I mean, did he even get to say goodbye to his family before Jaehyun took him in?" 

Taeyong hums. "Ah, the violence of it all, of course. And what if Donghyuck chose his fate for himself? Would you still pity him?" 

"I know what you're asking," Doyoung says, staid. "I wouldn't, really. I don't have an issue with vampirism like a lot of other humans do, but do you really think that nothing about what happened to him is tragic?" Donghyuck was just a kid, his entire life ripped to shreds in just a single night. Vampires can't return to their normal lives once they've been turned. It's pretty much a death wish.

He doesn't answer for another minute or so, finally finishing up the last of the sutures. He bats away Doyoung's hand lightly when he reaches to touch them. "It'll bother you at first, but try to touch it as little as possible," he instructs, sitting back and stretching his arms far above his head almost casually. "And no. What happened to Donghyuck breaks my heart; it really does. There was a time, centuries ago, when ceremonial turnings were treated as something of a funeral, even though ultimately the only life that was lost was nominal. That kind of sentiment is long lost now, but it's telling. I think you'll find that well-adjusted vampires take pride in their nature, nowadays." 

Doyoung is left to ruminate on that while he's in the shower later on. He's less shocked at his bedroom essentially being a living room in and of itself than the fact that a building this old and this massive has a functional plumbing system. 

The towel that he uses is made of such soft fabric that he almost feels guilty even using it, and he's hesitant to even sit on his king sized bed for similar reasons. Through the ceiling-high windows, Doyoung can see hints of color coming over the horizon, a gentle brush of orange watercolor rising from the distant forest outline. 

He figured that working with Taeyong meant adopting a nocturnal sleeping schedule, but now that he's actually here, it feels extremely surreal. He can't help but wonder if Johnny is watching the same sunrise wherever he is right now. 

Figuring it'll be easier to sleep without them, he walks over to the window to tug the curtains closed—he tries to, at least. It turns out that they're made of fucking lead, because he has to heave with his entire body just to fully extend it across the pole. 

There are two knocks on the door once he finally has the window completely veiled, and he turns to see Taeyong leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and an amused look on his face. 

"Having fun over there?" he asks, and Doyoung rolls his eyes. 

"Quite the ball, really," he responds, collapsing onto the nearest couch. (A couch! In his own bedroom!) Taeyong sits in a wicker chair a few feet from him, crossing his legs in a way Doyoung can only describe as regal. 

"I can imagine you as a king," he says without thinking, and he feels oddly satisfied at the way it clearly catches Taeyong off guard. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then tries again. 

"I'm not going to be the next king," he says slowly, enunciating every word as if they only have meaning individually.

Doyoung's brows furrow. "No? Aren't you a prince or something?" 

"Or something," he repeats, and his eyes get this far-away look that Doyoung can't make heads or tails of. It only lasts for a few blinks of an eye, before his gaze is as sharp and clear-headed as it usually is. "The council isn't going to put me on the throne. I'm…"

"You're…?" 

"A half-blood," he finishes. "My mother was a human. I should have told you earlier." He looks almost ashamed to say it, but Doyoung doesn't understand why. 

"Okay," he answers carefully. "Is that an issue?" He doesn't realize Taeyong has been nervously tapping his thumb on his thigh until he stops. 

"Half-blooded vampires are considered obscenities in the court," he says slowly, somewhere between sheepish and incredulous. "As far as the gentry is concerned, that's reason enough to keep me from being the next king." He folds his hands neatly into his lap, but his thumb resumes its rhythm on the side of his other hand. "I'm told many rallied for my execution once my birth had been announced," he finishes quietly. 

There are a lot of things Doyoung could say in response to that, but somehow he knows that Taeyong isn't after his sympathy. "Humans don't share that prejudice, I can promise you that much."

"No," he says conclusively, "It seems like you don't." 

"Is that what you came in here to tell me?" Doyoung asks.

"It isn't, but it's good that I told you, anyway. I just wanted to let you know that we'll start planning our next move come nightfall. You should get some rest."

It's an oddly warm gesture considering the tension in their relationship, but if this is supposed to be Taeyong's olive branch, he's more than willing to accept it.

But, before he does. "Can I ask you something, Taeyong?" 

He doesn't visibly tense, but Doyoung can tell from the way his eyes harden that the question sets him on edge. He tilts his head as if to say go on. 

Doyoung flounders for a moment. He hadn't thought about how to phrase this. "You're breathing," he starts. 

"I am," Taeyong confirms, clearly confused. 

"But Jaehyun wasn't." 

Realization clicks in Taeyong's eyes. "It's...more of a social thing, I guess. Helps us blend in better. Jaehyun has lived alone for a long time. It's easy to forget." 

"So you don't have to breathe?" 

"I do. Others don't." He gives a small smile, maybe a shy one, at the apparent awe on Doyoung's face. "Don't let it keep you up at night."

"Sure, Taeyong. I'll see you." 

Doyoung spends maybe an hour tossing to-and-fro after Taeyong leaves before deciding that sleep is hell-bent on eluding him. 

The room is pitch black when he sits up, and it occurs to him that although the curtains were insanely heavy, they certainly do their job of blocking out the sunlight. He only stubs his toe twice on the way to the door, feeling around for one of the candle holders and lighting it with a nearby match as he goes. 

The hall is predictably spookier with all of the windows shut tight, not a speck of light to be found anywhere around him. They aren't formally taught very much about vampires in school, but he remembers kids gossipping, teasing the few vampire classmates he had about whether or not they could see in the dark. Doyoung never learned the veracity of those jeers, but buried in the murky blackness like he is now, he wouldn't be surprised if they were true after all. 

He has the location of the kitchen they had passed by in his mind's eye as he moves slowly down the hall. The stone walls look so different under candlelight, and he'd be lying if he said that the taxidermied animal heads didn't look all the more intimidating because of it. He makes it to the staircase nonetheless, and it's at the bottom of the vestibule that a thin ray of light just barely catches his eye from across the room. 

He moves towards it, deciding to indulge his curiosity, and he finds that it leads to the parlor from just a few hours earlier. Peeking into the room, he finds Donghyuck standing at the window, holding open the curtain just enough to let light shine through. He has his other hand pressed to the glass, fingers splayed. 

"Donghyuck?" he calls lightly, not wanting to startle him. He doesn't jump though, just turns his head slowly towards him. Gilded light paints his profile at this angle, and for a moment Doyoung thinks he looks rather angelic. The irony doesn't escape him. 

Donghyuck turns his head back to the window when Doyoung comes to stand beside him. Then it clicks, why he has his hand pressed to the window. "It doesn't burn?" 

He takes several moments to answer. It frightens Doyoung, the way he seems to be moving in slow motion. "It tingles," he answers, an impressive lack of emotion for just two words. "Jaehyun told me the changes would come slowly." 

Donghyuck retracts his hand as he says it and steps away from the curtains. Just before the room is enveloped in darkness once more, Doyoung catches a sudden flare of life in his countenance. He's certain he hadn't imagined it. 

He grabs Doyoung's forearm with both hands, and the childishness he associates with him is reaffirmed at the feeling of his soft hands, ones that have never labored. 

"Come walk with me," Donghyuck says, and he agrees. He leads Doyoung up a different flight of stairs, ones that exit out onto the castle's ramparts. The sun just barely floats above the distant line of trees, and the view is disconcordantly serene. Beside him, Donghyuck stares at it like it holds all the answers to the world. 

"Still tingles?" he asks, and Donghyuck flashes him a quick smile, nodding. 

"It won't kill me yet," he says. "I didn't appreciate the sunlight before. I was pretty much nocturnal before. I hated the daytime." 

Doyoung laughs, because he remembers being like that in highschool, too, before he had met Johnny and his good habits had rubbed off on him. "As long as you get eight hours, I always say." 

"Right?" Donghyuck agrees, and pulls him along to walk on the stone pathway. 

Jaehyun's manor is way bigger than what he would have guessed from just seeing the facade. Below them, the grassy plane slopes downward steep enough to guarantee a quick death were he to fall off. He can't help but wonder what a single person could want with an estate this massive.

"How old are you, Donghyuck?" Doyoung asks once they've made it halfway to the other end of the walkway. 

"I was supposed to turn nineteen next week," he says. "I guess I'll miss that milestone." 

"Well, not really. You were close enough; what's seven days' difference?" 

In the distance, a bird cries out, followed by a large flock climbing out from somewhere in the forest. They watch the black mass disperse into the sky, individual black dots still somehow flapping their wings in unison.

"You kind of look twelve, anyway." Donghyuck gives him a playful shove at that, and dodges around him nimbly when he tries to retaliate. It devolves into chaos from there, with Doyoung chasing him down the ramparts all the way to the other side of the castle. Donghyuck's laughter is of the high-pitched, sort of squealy variety, and he finds it incredibly easy to laugh along, too. 

Just when Doyoung is close enough to grab at his arm, Donghyuck trips and falls, landing hard on the stone with a cry. Doyoung's heart shoots up into his throat, and he doesn't waste time kneeling by his side and helping him sit up.

"Are you okay?" he asks, gently peeling Donghyuck's arm from where he's cradling it against his chest. The bruise is red and ugly, almost on par with what Doyoung had seen on his face in the mirror. 

"Really fucking hurts," Donghyuck says. Tears start brimming at his eyes, and Doyoung's sleeve is midway to his cheek when his jaw drops at what he sees. The torn skin of Donghyuck's arm moves on its own, stretching itself over the wound and knitting itself back together before his very eyes until it looks like he had never fallen at all.

"Um," Doyoung says smartly.

"I don't…" Donghyuck starts, voice cracking through his tears. "Do—do vampires heal this quickly?" 

"I don't know, I...maybe? Does it still hurt?" 

Donghyuck runs a hand over the area the bruise used to be, flexes it, and shakes his head. Then he suddenly stands, starting at a brisk pace back towards the entrance of the ramparts.

"Wait—where are you going?" Doyoung asks him, matching his pace. 

"Jaehyun," Donghyuck answers with a tone that Doyoung needs a few moments to recognize as fear. He follows him as far as the main vestibule, freezing when he realizes they're about to enter a part of the manor he hasn't seen. He puts a hand on Donghyuck's shoulder so that he stops with him.

"Do I need to come with you?" he asks. Do you want me to come with you?" 

Donghyuck pauses at that, turning to look at him with terror-stricken eyes, and somehow he looks both a decade younger and older than he really is. 

"No," he tells him. "No, I'll...I'll be okay on my own. I shouldn't have gone out anyway, I…" he trails off, still holding his once-bruised arm close to his body. Doyoung can't stand how much he looks like a wounded animal, ready to flee at the drop of a pin. 

"It's okay. I understand," Doyoung tries to comfort. "I'll see you around. Okay?" 

Donghyuck nods, going his separate way and leaving Doyoung staring after him. 

Predictably, it's even harder to fall asleep after that. Behind closed eyelids, all he can see is a harrowed gaze juxtaposed with childlike laughter, and it's all he can do to pray that Donghyuck still gets to live something resembling a normal life someday. 

When he opens his eyes next, there's a hand on his shoulder jostling him awake and warm candlelight illuminating Taeyong's features. He sits up quickly, rubbing at the squeeze in his eyes from the sudden light.

"You didn't sleep," he greets. 

"Well you woke me up just now, so one of us is lying." 

Taeyong sets the candleabrum on his dresser, stepping aside so Doyoung can climb out of bed. "I heard you guys laughing. My room is closest to the ramparts." 

He—oh, right. Soft hands pressed against the window, skid marks. Guilt. "I just wanted to have fun with him. He looked like he could use some laughter in his life." Doyoung says.

Taeyong doesn't respond, and for a while they just stare at each other. His face is flawlessly expressionless.

"Is that your 'I'm judging you but I don't want to make it obvious I'm judging you' face?" 

"Jaehyun wants to meet in the parlor," Taeyong ignores him. "There's no rush, but I'd like to get this started as soon as possible." 

"And just what exactly are we starting?" Doyoung asks, stretching with his arms above his head and yawning loudly. Taeyong almost looks taken aback as he watches him, and the only reason Doyoung doesn't laugh at him is because he doesn't seem to be in the best of moods this morn—night. 

"Hopefully that's what we're going to figure out," he responds, and then he's once again left to his own devices.

Doyoung doesn't remember there being an unopened tube of toothpaste and a packaged toothbrush in his bathroom, but he'll take it. 

The moon is nowhere to be found when he lugs open the curtains, but the sky out here so far from the city has such a deep emptiness without it that he can't even complain. He finds himself wondering if Taeyong would find it as beautiful as he does, but he discards the thought as soon as it comes. Taeyong doesn't strike him as the type of person to care about beauty. 

Jaehyun and Taeyong are sitting far apart on the couch when Doyoung enters the parlor. Jaehyun has changed from his borderline ostentatious suit into a more cozy looking plain pink sweater vest with a dress shirt beneath. It's becoming increasingly difficult to picture him in anything less than formal, and he's hardly known him for twenty-four hours. He still looks perfectly unbothered as he calmly marks out boxes in a sudoku book at one end of the couch, with freshly lit incense burning in the middle of the coffee table. There's also a tray of biscuits, but it doesn't look like either of them have touched them.

Taeyong, on the other hand, is hugging his knees close to his body on the other end of the couch, chin resting on top of them. His body looks tense. He doesn't move even when Doyoung takes a seat in the same chair he had before. Doyoung hopes he hasn't interrupted something again.

"Shall we, then?" Jaehyun asks, setting his book on the coffee table and folding his hands in his lap. 

"We should start by figuring out who would want Kun dead," Taeyong starts. Though his eyes are trained on the velveteen rug beneath them, Doyoung can tell whatever he's looking at isn't in the real world. 

"There are a lot of people in the gentry who would have him dead," Jaehyun says. 

"Yes, but not very many would go through with it. It's hard to get all dressed up and flaunt your money at a chateau that's without a host."

"Someone with a vendetta against the king who isn't necessarily part of the gentry?" Jaehyun muses. "The common folk hardly have any interest in our affairs. I doubt they even know they're kingless." 

For a while, Doyoung listens to their back and forth about who or where they should start looking to find their assassin, a myriad of family names that he's never heard of shuffled around their conversation like this revenge plot is a weird game of reverse 5D chess. He can't help but check out when they start discussing what certain parties would have to gain from each other in the wake of a catastrophic event like this—and it's then that an idea pops into his head.

"What if Kun wasn't the end goal?" he breaks in, and they both turn to look at him. "Maybe he was just a means to an end." 

"I'd be really interested to see what long-winded plot has the murder of a king as just a checkpoint," Jaehyun laughs, but Taeyong is as strait-laced as ever. 

"I think it's worth considering, but there's a lot that's left vulnerable in the wake of this mess. There's only so much Doyoung and I can do alone."

They're all silent for a few moments, considering. Jaehyun ends up being the first to speak.

"It might be a long shot, but the last time there was an attack on the crown of this caliber, one of the thief's accomplices came forward. He confessed that their company, the House of Repose, had been commissioned for a grave robbery," he explains. 

"You think they're still active now?" Taeyong asks. Jaehyun shrugs.

"I think it may be worth looking into. There's no other coterie that would risk an attack directly on the court. Luhan tried to hunt them down once, but they're slippery." It's barely there, but the tiniest hint of a smile crosses over his face. Wistful. Then he continues. "But if it were me, that's where I would start. I know it's not much to go off of, but in the underworld the thread of The Game weaves a tangled fabric. You might find answers in the place you'd least expect." 

That does it. "Can someone explain to me what The Game is, already?" Doyoung interjects. He blushes at his own rudeness, but Jaehyun just chuckles.

"You haven't explained it to him, Taeyongie?" he says, and then Doyoung is surprised for a different reason. "I imagine it sounds like we're speaking a different language to you, Doyoung-ssi,"

Doyoung quirks his lips into an awkward smile. "A little."

"It's not exactly the easiest thing to explain, in my defense," Taeyong sighs. "I thought he would sort of pick up on it. But I guess not,"

"The Great Game, Doyoung-ssi, is the name the aristocracy gives the dance of social and political intrigue everyone is playing at any given moment—among themselves, anyway," Jaehyun explains. Doyoung thinks there's a hint of pride in his tone. "It might not be something humans are familiar with, but among vampires, the political and social machinations are something one must be aware of at all times if you're to survive even a moment in our world. Even the tiniest faux-pas can mean life or death in the royal court,"

Doyoung thinks about linking arms with Taeyong back at the chateau, and waiting in that line just to bow at Kun's heel. How violently the young lady that had fallen in front of him had reacted when he reached out to help, and Johnny's words from what feels like forever ago; 'Vampires don't take insults lightly.'

It kind of makes his head spin, but some pieces start to fit together. 

"It's a headache," Taeyong mutters. 

"You say that, but you're one of the best players I know, Taeyong," Jaehyun coos, and he blushes. 

"I'll maim you." 

"I mean what I said though," Jaehyun continues, speaking to Doyoung again. "The Game is delicate. There's very little you can get accomplished through brute force or, god forbid, a lack of etiquette," he tacks on the last part sarcastically—at least, he thinks it's supposed to be sarcastic.

"Okay, I think I get it," Doyoung says. Then, drily, "And I don't suppose there are classes?"

"There aren't, but I can't imagine Taeyong will let you get into too much trouble. You'll pick it up easy enough, I'm sure."

For the first time that night, Taeyong unfolds from around himself, stretching his legs out in front of him and running a hand through his hair. It's an unconscious motion, but Doyoung can't help but admire how striking he looks with his hair pulled back exposing his forehead. He glances at the ground, at the rug—anywhere but him. 

"So I suppose you won't come with us, Jaehyunnie?" he asks. Jaehyun shakes his head.

"I have to stay here for Donghyuck," he says. 

Taeyong gives him a long look at that, not unlike the one he had given Doyoung earlier that mo—night. Jaehyun returns it silently, and now Doyoung is just getting irritated with how much it feels like he's third-wheeling. He clears his throat tactfully. 

"Do you know where we should begin looking for the House of Repose, Jaehyun-ssi?"

Thankfully, they break eye contact like nothing happens, but Jaehyun brushes invisible crumbs from his pants before he responds. "I do, in fact, but it will take a day or two to get my correspondences in order,"

Doyoung nods. "Intricacies of The Game?"

"Quick learner," Jaehyun smiles. 

"I guess it's settled then," Taeyong says. He leans forward to pluck a biscuit from the tray, taking a bite. Doyoung does the same, and an alarmed look crosses over his face just as he does. "Wait, Doyoung, those aren't—"

But it's too late. He's already taken a bite into the soft bread, and for a moment he doesn't understand what he's worked up about until the bread seems to disintegrate into nothing in his mouth, and the most horrid taste that's ever come across his tongue cuts an excruciatingly bitter path down his spinal cord and he spits it out violently. 

"What the fuck?" he splutters, scraping his tongue against his teeth strong enough that he knows it'll be sore later. 

"For humans," Taeyong finishes. He plucks a few tissues from a nearby tissue box and begins collecting the pieces of biscuit from where they landed on the table. Normally Doyoung would move to help him since it was his mess, but his mind is still in shock. The biscuits didn't just taste bad; it felt like his entire body rejected its entire atomic composition.

Through his scrunched face, he can see that Jaehyun looks embarrassed. 

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, "I should have warned you. Taeyong can't eat human food in the way other vampires can, so he eats substitutes; substitutes made of...things humans can't eat,"

Doyoung catches a glimpse of some of the half-chewed biscuit peeking out from the tissue in Taeyong's hand, and the sanguine color he sees makes him want to retch for a different reason. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, pretending he hadn't seen it. 

"Oh my god," is all he can say in response. It feels like his tongue curled up and died in his mouth. He hears Taeyong breathe a laugh. 

"You look like how I felt the first time I tried to eat human candy," he muses. 

Jaehyun still looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin, so Doyoung tries his best to offer a smile through the pain. "It was an honest mistake, Jaehyun-ssi. Don't worry about it," 

"I think Jaehyun cares more about being a good host than taking care of himself," says Taeyong. 

Jaehyun ignores him. "For what it's worth, I do know how to prepare human food if you'd like something to eat," 

Doyoung is surprised by the offer, but he accepts and pretends that he doesn't see Taeyong roll his eyes. Jaehyun practically skips to the kitchen, apparently hellbent on making Doyoung the greatest breakfast on earth to make up for him accidentally eating demon food. Taeyong wanders off somewhere while he isn't looking so Doyoung just watches Jaehyun work for a while until it becomes evident that he's too concentrated on chopping up onions to hold any conversation, at which point he tries to figure out where Taeyong disappeared off to.

It's by sheer luck that Doyoung finds him in the manor's back garden—which is a thing that exists, to his un-surprise. It's more like a small park really, with tall, neatly trimmed flower bushes surrounding the prim field of grass. Vibrant flowers line the limestone path that crawls around the garden, winding in and out of itself like a snake, almost labyrinthine. 

The air out here is cool for mid-June, even at night. Doyoung smells it before he sees the reason why; a small artificial pond in the center of the expanse turning the air brisk around it. At its edge stands a single willow tree, its leaves hanging deathly still above dark water. It looks almost imperial, its presence seemingly demanding all of his attention. Beneath the dark trunk is Taeyong, kneeling just over the clean-cut stone that borders the pond, fingers treading the water carefully. He doesn't look up when Doyoung sits beside him.

There are small lamps embedded at the bottom of the pond, casting a gentle glow on his face as he observes the gentle ripples his fingers make. His face is relaxed, but his body tense. 

"Are you okay?" Doyoung asks after several minutes elapse in silence. Taeyong finally turns to him then, flicking his finger free of water and unfolding his legs to stretch them out in the grass. 

"I feel like I should be asking you that," he deflects. Doyoung decides to play his game. 

"Well, the taste from your weird demon biscuits is gone, but I think I might be scarred."

Taeyong smiles at that. "I meant your being here, not our 'weird demon biscuits'. I'm sure I would feel pretty uncomfortable if I was suddenly dragged into the human world. I can't imagine what this must be like for you."

Doyoung thinks about it. It's...different, yes, but not exactly difficult to adjust to. He's sure that there's more to vampire life that he's yet to witness though, and he tells Taeyong as much. 

He nods. "It's best to keep your guard up." 

They lapse into silence again, but Doyoung sort of wants to see how much he can push his buttons. "You didn't answer my question, though," 

"Your question," he echoes. 

"Yeah. I asked if you were okay."

"Does it matter?" 

An irritating response, but Doyoung brushes it off. "It does to me,"

Taeyong brushes his fingers in circles in the grass, contemplating a response. "I don't know, Doyoung. It still sort of feels like the world is spinning,"

"That's understandable," Doyoung tells him. "Are...are you sure you want to be doing this? You're allowed to take care of yourself first, you know,"

Taeyong looks up at him sharply, and he can see his claws being brandished before he even speaks. "I don't need you to play therapist for me, Doyoung," he spits. "Nobody but Jaehyun and I care about Kun's death. If I'm the only person that wants to honor his name by finding his killer, then whether or not I'm okay about it is a moot point." he pauses for a breath. "It's my responsibility." 

There are a lot of spots in his reasoning that Doyoung takes issue with, but he doesn't voice any of them. If Taeyong wants to bare his teeth at the slightest hint of compassion, he isn't going to make it his problem. 

"Sorry," he says, standing. "I won't ask again." He doesn't look back as he retraces his steps to the garden entrance and reenters the manor. 

Finding himself at a loss for what to do while he waits for Jaehyun, who's apparently prepping a three-course meal with dessert as an apology, he decides to take his chances and wander around the mansion. 

It's beautiful, really—though the stone walls are old and gray, Jaehyun has done a meticulous job decorating every doorway, hall, and window with various warm colored tapestries, paintings, and other borderline flamboyant accessories that he hardly even notices their age. There doesn't seem to be a single space in Jaehyun's home that doesn't contain at least two or three garish displays of wealth. Doyoung wants to say that his lack of modesty is distasteful, but his eye for interior design is honestly anything but. It's definitely a lot to look at, but he makes it work somehow.

He seems to be a gracious host, anyway, so Doyoung's willing to let it slide. 

At some point he finds himself on a railway looking down into what appears to be a formal ballroom, and Doyoung suddenly gets the impression that the mansion once housed many, many people. It's a well lit room, with pale golden marble lining the floor and crawling up the walls to accent dark wooden supports. For a reason he can't place, the scene pulls at a memory, and it's not until he looks up to see a beautiful, massive chandelier hanging above that he understands why. His heart rate spikes and there's blood roaring in his ears as he quickly exits from the way he came, scuttling down the thin staircase he had found and back into the auxiliary vestibule. 

He doesn't really pay attention to where he goes after that, just lets his feet carry him anywhere that isn't—back there. Taking a different route than before, he eventually finds himself standing in a large dining hall with a very, very long table settled in the center of it. There must be two dozen chairs evenly spaced around it, all of them with tall backrests that are gilded at the edges. Perfectly folded handkerchiefs sit in front of the rows of empty chairs, a myriad of silver cutlery settled neatly in front of them. 

Maybe Doyoung would believe that Jaehyun had set these out while he was gone if there were only three or four seats prepared, but the dining table is at least several meters long, and the manor is reclusive enough that he can't imagine him having enough guests to fill them all. He takes a nervous seat in the chair nearest to the hall's entrance, at the far end of the table.

He lets his gaze travel down the beautiful wooden surface, and soon it lands at the edge of a large painting on the opposite wall. It's definitely taller than he is, and the frame looks heavy enough that it would probably injure him if it fell on him. On it is a hyper-realistic head-on portrait of Jaehyun standing beside someone he doesn't recognize, just slightly shorter than him. He looks young compared to Jaehyun, but he knows that's mostly meaningless considering he's probably a vampire. His hair is dyed a dusty orange-red, striking compared to Jaehyun's warm, natural brown. Their clothes are ostentatiously ornamented, silver and gold cords and badges dotting black suits among other accessories. 

Doyoung isn't really sure why he stares at it for as long as he does. Maybe it's how close they're standing to each other or the sheer amount of detail that's gone into their otherwise unassuming expressions, but something about the whole painting seems entirely too personal for it to be on display in a dining hall. 

There's a gentle clatter of porcelain on wood, and he jumps out of his skin. Jaehyun is balancing a large platter with one hand and setting down large glasses beside him. He smiles at him in greeting. 

"I see you've met Luhan," he says, unaccusing. Doyoung is confused for a moment until Jaehyun glances up at the painting. 

The red haired stranger is Luhan, then. "You two were friends?" 

Jaehyun nods. "I knew him before he was king. We were close," He sets the platter in the center of the table, a little ways away in front of Doyoung. "Others said he was a bad influence on me, but oh, well. He's long gone, now." 

Doyoung watches him while he talks, but there isn't a shred of emotion that crosses over his face as he talks about his friend. 

"How...how old was he?" he questions. "If that's not rude of me to ask."

"It isn't, but I don't have an answer for you. He said he lost count, but that's less a testament to any presumed old age as it is to just his character. Forgetful, uncaring...he always acted like the crude nineteen year-old he was when he had first been turned." It's a taunt, but his smile widens as he says it. He looks fond, and Doyoung can't help but smile, too. 

"How old were you when you were turned?" he ventures.

Jaehyun freezes at the question, momentarily surprised, but he collects himself almost immediately. Doyoung wonders how long it's been since he's been asked. "Twenty-two,"

Just a year younger than himself, then. "Just out of college?" 

At that Jaehyun breathes a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners mirthfully. "Colleges didn't exist in Korea when I was turned," he says, and Doyoung blushes. 

Right. Vampires can be really old. 

"Enough of me, though," he continues. He leans an arm on the back of one chair, regarding him in a way Doyoung thinks is supposed to be congenial. He sort of feels like he's about to be interrogated. "Why are you in here alone? Did Taeyong scare you away already?" 

Called it, Doyoung thinks bitterly. He sighs. "He's...hard to pin down," he settles on. The crinkles around Jaehyun's eyes deepen.

"You can just say impertinent. I wouldn't disagree with you." 

It's Doyoung's turn to huff a laugh, but his lips don't quirk up in a smile to match it. "He agreed to bring me along to help find Johnny, but he really isn't trying his best to be cooperative,"

"Honestly? If I were in his place, I probably wouldn't be, either," Jaehyun says. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, but you're out of your element here. Taeyong likes to be in control of situations when he can be, and as it stands, he's much better equipped to go assassin hunting than you are,"

It kind of stings, but he knows Jaehyun isn't wrong. 

"That being said, if he really didn't want you around, you wouldn't be here right now, Doyoung-ssi. Try not to take it too personally."

Doyoung nods, knowing that he probably will regardless. He appreciates Jaehyun's words anyway. "Are you two close?"

Jaehyun dips his head from one side to another, contemplating. "We have a history," he says, noncommittal. "Whether or not we're close is debatable." He detaches himself from the chair he's leaning on, pulling it out and taking a seat. Doyoung doesn't really want to analyze that, so he doesn't. 

The breakfast Jaehyun prepares turns out to be a meal fit for a king. There's enough food for at least five people, with such a wide variety of options that he doesn't even know where to begin with the sea of platters he's faced with. Doyoung supposes he must have felt really bad. He almost wants to apologize again and tell him it's no big deal, but a painful twinge in his stomach tells him that he should just accept it and dig in before he dies of starvation. 

Doyoung doesn't even realize how hungry he was until he takes the first bite of a crepe that Jaehyun prepared, and he very nearly forgets his manners as he scarfs down the rest of it. Taeyong comes and joins them silently midway through the meal, and though Doyoung is initially wary, neither he nor Jaehyun seem to acknowledge any tension between them; so he doesn't either. 

If Taeyong offers to give him a tour of the manor once all their dishes are cleaned up; well, Doyoung's willing to accept the apology. 

Three days pass in relative accord. Doyoung splits his time between keeping Donghyuck's company and helping Jaehyun with his various chores around the castle. He learns that this is how he spends most of his time, apparently--making sure every inch of the castle is presentable lest the unexpected guest show up in the middle of the night. 

"It keeps me busy," is all Jaehyun says when Doyoung asks if it ever gets boring or tiring. "Meditative, almost." 

Donghyuck, he also finds, can actually be quite the entertainer. Though he's still primarily melancholic, it's clear he enjoys making others laugh, even if his own smiles never seem to really reach his eyes. Sometimes they do, though, whenever Doyoung laughs at one of his anecdotes or playful gags, and it warms his heart. He hopes more than anything that after all he's lost, he at least gets to keep his laughter.

Those moments are few and far in between, though. Most of the time, Doyoung finds him trailing behind Jaehyun while they're flitting about the castle or sitting quietly off to the side staring into space while he and Doyoung chat. He can tell Jaehyun is just as worried about him as Doyoung is by the subtle glances he keeps casting in his direction when their conversations begin to lull, but neither of them say anything.

Taeyong, however, is a complete recluse. He supposes it's not unusual that they frequently miss each other in a property as huge as Jaehyun's, but he, Donghyuck, and himself at least have some kind of tacit agreement to at least stay near each other. Taeyong is completely MIA for the first two days, and whenever he asks Jaehyun about his whereabouts, his only answer is something along the lines of, 'Oh, he's around,' which doesn't really make Doyoung feel any better. 

He finally crops up midway through the third day, during a time he thought everyone else would be asleep. Doyoung does a double take as he steps into the parlor carrying a bundle of Baby Breaths from the garden, their dainty stems wrapped together with a single thread of twine. 

"Oh, you didn't have to," Doyoung coos, resting a finger in between the pages of the book he had been reading. It's one he had read before back in highschool—John Knowles' A Separate Peace. He had discovered it in one of Jaehyun's libraries (of which there were many, of course). It had been the only book he recognized, the rest boasting authors and titles he can only assume aren't well known in the human world, many of them bound in crumbling leather if not entirely handwritten in gracious, flowing script. It was sort of surreal, really, how vampires and humans lived so closely together, yet the cultural differences were nearly unbridgeable—something as unanimous as literature bypassed in the wake of tense coexistence. 

Taeyong carefully inserts the bouquet into an empty vase on the coffee table, nudging them around until the small white buds form a nearly perfect semi-circle at the top. They add an oddly picturesque quality to the room under the candlelight, like a dark but serene still-life painting. "Not for you," he says.

"Just to brighten up the room, then?" 

Taeyong nods absently, obviously not caring to entertain him, and then leaves without another word. The entire interaction couldn't have lasted more than twenty seconds at most, but Doyoung thinks it only added on to the ghastliness of his character; moving about the mansion, picking and choosing when and where his person is allowed to be perceived, lashing out when he feels intruded upon. He stares at the space he once occupied for longer than he wants to admit before returning to his book. 

The worst part about staying in the manor are the nightmares. Truth be told, he doesn't sleep very well when the sound of shattering glass and a haunting mass of corpses keep returning over and over in his dreams. 

The worst ones are when Donghyuck is there. Sometimes Doyoung can only see glimpses of him in the fleeing crowd, but other times he's calling for Doyoung specifically, but Doyoung can never find him no matter how hard he looks, and when he wakes up there's this horrible guilt-induced pit in his stomach that makes him dizzy. 

He's familiar with post-traumatic stress as a concept, but he's far from well equipped to handle it properly. He bears with the lack of sleep and his newfound inability to focus by doing nothing about it and dealing with the mental dysphoria as it comes. If anyone else in the manor notices it, they don't say anything.

It'll be fine, he tells himself. Others have been through worse than him. Donghyuck certainly has. 

Doyoung winds up reading about half of his novel by the time Jaehyun politely requests his presence in the sun room. He had decided to suspend disbelief at its name, and when he enters the wide semi-circled shaped room in one of the manor's towers, he's greeted with a view of the moon through ceiling-high windows that takes his breath away. It's the only source of light in the room, a solid beam of white light cascading onto the carpeted floor like a spotlight. 

Jaehyun urges him to make himself at home, so Doyoung takes a spot on a velvety chair closest to the window, only taking his eyes off of the moon when he has to. Taeyong is regarding him quietly from an antique backless divan, his legs dangling over the side and hands folded neatly on his stomach. 

"Is everything finally in order, Jaehyunnie?" Taeyong asks when he finally settles into his own chair, pulling out an honest-to-god tanned scroll of paper from a thin tube like a mid-century love letter. 

"Yes," he answers. "I apologize for the time it took, but you know how it goes, pulling strings and weighing favors against each other. I've made contact with a courier of mine. He will get you as close to what remains of the House of Repose as he can, and your hunt can continue from there,"

Taeyong whistles. "Really? Just like that? Seems a little too easy, no?" 

Jaehyun's only answer is a patient grin, and Doyoung wonders just how deep his civility runs beneath the surface—if it does at all. 

"I don't recognize the address at which you're to meet named in the letter, but if they want to be private, I suppose I can forgive them that much," There's a pause after that where he imagines Taeyong glancing between them, but he pretends not to notice it. 

"Can we trust them?" Doyoung asks. 

"Oh, certainly. They wouldn't stab me in the back like that. The stakes for them are too high." Jaehyun says it as casually as if he were discussing the weather. He glances at Taeyong to see if there's anything in his expression to quell his worries, but as usual, there isn't very much going on there. 

He does stand though, walking over to where Jaehyun is sitting and collecting the tube. He dumps the paper into his hand unceremoniously, reading over it for himself before flattening it in his palm and stuffing it in his pocket. 

"It says they want us there tonight," he announces. "We should be on our way as soon as possible."

"I agree," Jaehyun says, standing as well. "I've already arranged for transportation for both of you into the city. You'll have to find the courier on your own after that, but it's safer this way. Less chance of your travels being traced." 

"Less chance for us to be traced back to you, you mean," Taeyong quips. 

"Well, yes. I'm the most important chess piece here, obviously." he jokes back, and Doyoung resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Doyoung follows both of them out of the sun room, but something tugs at his arm before he can start descending down the staircase. He turns to see Donghyuck looking at him with wide, worried eyes. 

"Are you leaving?" he asks—no, almost demands. Doyoung glances back down the stairs to see the backs of Jaehyun and Taeyong disappear around the curve. 

He hadn't promised Donghyuck anything, he reasons. He shouldn't feel like he's on trial. 

"I am," Doyoung tells him. "I wasn't planning on staying here forever, or anything."

Donghyuck releases his arm and takes a small step back, some room to breathe. "Yeah. I know. I'm...I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

Doyoung wishes he didn't know what he was apologizing for, but it's too far away from him, a guilt settled too deeply in Donghyuck's chest for him to detangle. He waits while he recomposes himself, and he speaks again. "Will you come back?" 

"I don't know," he answers truthfully. "What Taeyong and I are doing—I have no idea how this will all turn out. I can't promise you anything, Donghyuckie." 

Through deep brown eyes that betray heartbreak on the surface, Doyoung can see his underlying plea, the one thing he has too much pride to beg for: don't leave me here with these monsters. don't leave me alone. 

But Doyoung has to, because he can't take responsibility for someone else's grief. It sucks, and it's cruel that Donghyuck's last connection with his old life has to be severed like this, but—but. But what? There's nothing else to be said or done, and they'll both just have to accept that. 

"If things do turn out well," Doyoung says, because he's soft, "I'll try to come see you, okay? Is that something you'd like?" 

Donghyuck doesn't answer immediately, heavy eyes boring through Doyoung's skull until there's a sudden intake of breath, and once again he looks so many years older than he is. "I don't think it matters."

He's not despondent as he says it. There's a strain of familiar rebelliousness in his words, and more than anything, it's reassuring. Donghyuck can be strong on his own. Doyoung pulls him into a hug without thinking, a short one, and he doesn't resist. 

"You'll be okay," Doyoung tells him. "I know you will. Alright? This isn't the end." 

Donghyuck nods, gives him one last unreadable look, and slinks away. Doyoung waits until he's reached the bottom landing before letting out an emotional Jesus Christ, and he doesn't notice Taeyong leaning against a nearby wall with his arms crossed. 

"Are you ready?" he asks, and Doyoung's almost certain he was eavesdropping. Neither of them choose to mention it. 

From the manor's front doors, at the very end of the stone bridge, he can see a gentle orange glow emanating from what looks like a horse drawn carriage. Taeyong starts a quick pace towards it, his dark coat billowing behind him, leaving Doyoung and Jaehyun following at a more casual gait. 

Beside him, Jaehyun nudges his shoulder and hands him a leather package. Opening it, it contains two lightweight pristine daggers, one with a silver blade, and the other with a dark metal Doyoung can't name. He looks at Jaehyun, questioning. 

"Something you two will be needing, I think," he explains. "Since it doesn't seem like Taeyong brought anything from the chateau. Consider it a gift from me." 

Doyoung does, and thanks him for it. Taeyong wordlessly helps him into the carriage when he's galled by its height, and he only offers Jaehyun a terse wave before he signals to their escort that they're ready, and then they're off into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from my writing notes: "jaehyun is hannibal lecter in temperament"
> 
> song rec: [luschka - kami no kotoba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7Y5FJh46cs)


	4. Chapter 4

Yuta spends the next day poring through the book Renjun had found alone in a small chamber some ways away from where Johnny is being held in the tunnels.

Well, it's less of a chamber and more of a dugout, really. Yuta had guessed that the people who had built these tunnels long ago had intended to continue digging, but forever reason their effort had been arrested. There's still a section of what he thinks is a femur poking out of the stone above where he currently sits, and that was all the explanation he needed. Regardless, it's silent, and though the air is stale and dusty, he's in complete solitude.

Speaking candidly, he isn't sure whether or not the notes he's taking from the unpublished journal are anything usable. He's the only person in their little coterie who ever made it past a highschool level education, but even he's unable to decipher most of the writings. The author lets them run off on so many different tangents, sometimes tangents within tangents, that are just barely connected to any real thesis he's trying to make that Yuta frequently has to catch himself before deciding to throw the entire thing away.

He comes pretty close a couple times, though. He decides to take a break when the first yawn hits, placing his pen in the crease of the dilapidated journal and closing it. His hands find the other book he had brought without thinking, and he sets the leather tome on his lap with a sigh.

Yuta didn't think it would bother him this much, but he had genuinely lost sleep over the way Junmyeon's book seemed to loom over him from the side of his bed, the ill will in black ink unshakable and suffocating. He had willingly disavowed any and all of Junmyeon's possessions that would have otherwise rightfully been his when he had died, and even now his words always echoed around his skull: If you're going to do anything, do it right. No regrets, no going back on your word. Do you understand, Nakamoto Yuta?

And being the impressionable young adult he had been back then, he had nodded obediently and said yes, of course, Junmyeon. To even be holding the book now was a horror in its own right, like Junmyeon would somehow raise himself from six feet under to rain terror down on his world for going against his word.

That doesn't happen, though. Of course it doesn't. It's still just Yuta and miles and miles of heavy dirt and stone around him along with his demons. He flips through the journal some more until he comes to the passage that had first caught his eye back at the chateau. As he reads Junmyeon's impeccable handwriting, he's suddenly overcome with gratitude that he's alone right now, because he doesn't want anyone to see how he already knows he'll react to Junmyeon's journal entries.

There's one passage dated on his birthday, the year of 1913.

It's Yuta's birthday today, Junmyeon writes. Though I hardly saw him all day. He follows Luhan around the city like a child. It's quite a sight to see, really. Some days Yuta pretends Luhan and I are the only people in the coven that exists. I'm confident he'll find his place soon enough, though. The other day I overheard Baekhyun confessing how cute it was to see Yuta practicing his Chinese alone at a nearby street corner. I knew they'd come around.

It's the shortest entry he's stumbled across so far. Yuta doesn't even remember what he had done for his birthday that year. He does remember making a point to try and learn Mandarin as best he could during his time in China, though, and he does remember the way he had idolized Luhan back then.

They're fond memories, and he doesn't feel bad about the smile they bring to his face.

For a handful of pages, the entries he skims through only detail his daily affairs, none of them mentioning Yuta at all. It's interesting to read about the various other parties he had grown up with from Junmyeon's perspective.

Jongin snuck off to the theater again tonight. Well, not that he particularly tries to be sneaky about it, but as often as I notice his absence he's never mentioned it to me, nor anyone else as far as I'm aware. I found him deliberating once, standing outside of the room Yuta was working in for some time before he left by himself. My guess is he wanted to invite him, but chickened out for whatever reason.

Poor Jongin, must be running himself in circles trying to make amends.

Yuta smiles. He hardly saw Jongin during their time in Beijing. They grew close later on--even though Jongin never took him to the theater like he apparently wanted to, he taught Yuta to sing and dance in the years after that, where the deep snow swallowed all of the sound it came into contact with.

It's been a long time since he's thought about Jongin, and melancholy pinches at his heart as he turns the page to a new entry.

Yuta pauses at that. One of the many things he had picked up from Junmyeon was how to be exacting in language; to always say exactly what you mean, when you mean it. But he had written that he feared what would become of him; not the house, not his property, but Yuta himself. He stares at the pronoun long enough for his eyes to start watering to make sure he's seeing it right. Just what did Junmyeon want of him? Taking a breath, he continues reading.

Stringent or no, Yuta excels in all that I instruct him to. He seems to have forgotten his human life completely, with how voraciously he reads about our histories and how willing he is to adapt to our customs. Am I suspicious? Yes, but he hasn't surpassed me in wit just yet. For now I sing his praises, and hopefully in the future he will become the gem of our own coven.

On a semi-related note, I've been considering what the next step will be with him. He's obedient, but not submissive, and I've already noticed the odd directions his questions have been leading as of late. I fend them off best I can, but Yuta's naivety has been leaving him recently.

After that he closes the book gently, carefully resealing the leather latch and setting it down on the stone beside him. He knows it's not good to spend too much time wrapped up in the past. Junmyeon wouldn't want that for him. Another deathly boring half-hour passes before Yuta finally finds something he thinks he can use—or as opposed to something, it's someone.

Yixing, ultimately, still knows more than I do. In fact, I have reason enough to believe he's well on his way to understanding vampire-human immunity; but after our little scuffle, I doubt he'd be willing to share any of his findings with me. If it's to be a race to academic prestige, then may the best man win.

Yixing. The name seems to tickle something in the farthest recesses of his mind, but it's nothing he can get a grip on. Nonetheless, it may be a long shot, but he thinks this is something he can work with.

"What do you know of a Yixing?" Yuta asks Renjun later on that day. There's chipped blood under his nails, and his skin looks healthier, pigmented a gentle but lively pink just beneath the surface. The girl is probably buried in the fields somewhere by now.

Renjun doesn't look up from the manga he's reading in the lounge. "What, you think I'll know because I'm Chinese?"

"Well, yeah."

"Hm."

Yuta pinches his cheek lightly—Renjun has such a cute face, he probably would have done it even if he was being cooperative. "Injunni-ie," he whines. "Why don't you want to tell?"

"Zhang Yixing is a social pariah," Renjun finally relents, closing the book and setting it on their splintering coffee table. "He called himself a doctor, but the only people who ever took him seriously were on the same level of loony as he was. They said he fled to Korea after they torched his house back in Hunan, but nobody's really seen him since. That was decades ago. Why?"

Fear grips his heart at that. If his house was burned down, does that mean his research was gone, too?

No—he couldn't know for sure until they saw it for themselves. Yuta shows him the same entry he had come across in the tunnels, and he watches as Renjun's expression changes from vaguely exasperated to completely intrigued. "This…"

"We have to go after him," Yuta says, and Renjun shakes his head slowly, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Back in China, Yixing had been absolutely vilified for his work with humans—"

"He worked with humans?"

"No, I don't mean he worked with humans. I mean he experimented on them. He was...how could members of the royal family have ties with him?"

Yuta hardly catches the end of his sentence, because at the mention of human experimentation his mind is filled with stale, damp air heavy with the smell of blood, and the wailing of far too many people for their loved ones, for anyone, for their Gods. Junmyeon's hand had taken his own back then, but it was a tether to his cruelty he hadn't wanted, still doesn't want. His thumb suddenly burns where it had run across the page of his journal, feeling over the words penned by Junmyeon himself. Maybe things never changed between them.

Dizziness snaps him out of his reverie, and Renjun is looking at him questioningly. "Are you okay, hyung?"

Inhale, exhale. "Yeah. I'm...yeah. Okay," A moment to reorient himself in their conversation, then, "If this Yixing character is as horrible as you make him out to be, I wouldn't be surprised if Qian Kun had invited him over for tea and biscuits. There's nobody on the planet who can carry on a monarchy as violent as the gentry does and still be able to call themselves a good person, Renjun. Not even Qian Kun."

Renjun tilts his head just slightly, like a confused puppy, and Yuta resists the urge to make baby noises at him. "Aren't we violent too, though?"

Yuta puts a didactic hand on his shoulder. "Yes, but we have the moral high ground because we only do it for money. They do it because they're evil and I hate them."

Renjun huffs a laugh. "Okay, hyung."

"But anyway, if he's still alive, we need to find him. We need to find him even if he isn't alive. I think this is as close as we're ever going to get to helping Taeil."

"I agree, but I wouldn't know where to find him, hyung. I'm surprised the author of this journal even mentioned him by name." A beat. "But, you know, I'm pretty sure Yangyang knows."

Of course Yangyang knows, and of course he was currently off doing god knows what for Jung Jaehyun just so they'd have enough money to take it easy on the workload for a month or two. Damn him and his old money.

He sighs. He should've known better than to think this would be as easy as one, two, three. "I guess we're on our own, then."

//

Yuta remembers the day after Junmyeon had turned him—maybe it's the clearest memory of him he has. He had given Yuta a silver medallion over breakfast, on it engraved an image that was plastered on nearly every metallic surface that had been present in the manor—a twin-tailed bird perched imperiously on a branch casting a virulent stare over the shoulder of whoever happened to be looking at it. Raised Chinese characters form a semicircle around the crest's periphery, a phrase that roughly translates to seer.

Yuta had understood then and there that this was a graduation of sorts—a gift that should he decline would end in his death one way or another. At least Junmyeon had been kind enough to offer him an illusion of choice.

He had, of course, accepted it wordlessly, and Yuta remembers the way Junmyeon had smiled at him: open, honest, and full of pride. They had been together for a little over a year at that point—why would he have rejected it? It's not like he had anywhere to go, and even though the full extent of Junmyeon's coldness hadn't been known to him then, he had known that he would make Yuta regret wasting his time. Nonetheless, his apparent satisfaction at Yuta's decision had eased some of his distress back then—now, though, his stomach just churns at the memory.

It can't really be helped, though. He and Renjun had exhausted all of their options for finding out where Yixing currently made his home (or the last place he did, anyway) that didn't involve directly putting themselves in harm's way. Venturing back into the chateau wasn't an option considering how close they had come to being caught the first time. After two weeks of waving owed favors in the faces of old clients and trying to piece together what they can of horribly skewed family trees, they're able to find out that the last owner of the journal had an heir who had apparently taken great pains to extricate himself from any mention of their familial ties.

Yuta's first thought upon approaching the farm is that Yangyang would absolutely love it here. There are two ponies watching them approach with lazy eyes, their heads leaning out over their enclosure which stretches out into a vast open plain. It's about an hour from sunset, the light angled in that familiar way that proclaims the end of the day, but Renjun still holds up his parasol as if it were hanging directly overhead. Yuta had foregone his, but he understands the comfort it brings.

The door of the homestead is splintering at the edges and hangs feebly off one of its hinges, but it holds fast when Yuta knocks on it. He can see candlelight from inside through thin curtains, and the wood creaks open just a few moments later.

The man is taller than he had expected, and he would probably come off as intimidating when paired with his well-built figure if it weren't for the way his ears stuck out almost dopishly and his altogether childish face gave the impression of a complete inability to do anyone any harm.

"Hi there," he greets, offering them a smile so brilliant that Yuta almost cringes at its sincerity. "Are you lost? I don't usually get visitors around here unless they're lost."

"No, we aren't lost, and we're sorry for disturbing you at this hour," It's second nature to let the cordiality he had learned playing The Game seep into his every word, voice pitching higher to feign harmlessness. He ignores the way Renjun's eyes widen at the sudden shift in character. "Are you Lucas?"

The man nods, although the smile on his face falters and his back straightens nearly imperceptibly. Yuta envisions a legion of soldiers raising their shields in perfect, sharp unison.

"I am," Lucas answers, a lilt on the edge of his voice urging Yuta to continue.

"We're looking for Zhang Yixing. I don't know if that name means anything to you, but our sources led us here. Can you help us?"

He watches Lucas' face closely for any reaction at Yixing's name, but nothing outstanding is forthcoming. All he does is purse his lips slightly in thought and lean against the doorframe in an attempt to appear casual, which might have worked if his hand wasn't still gripping the door knob from the other side, like a cat poised to flee at the drop of a pin.

"I'm sorry if you've come a long way, but I've never heard that name in my life," he tells them apologetically. Yuta latches onto the Chinese accent that's bleeding into his words, and he can tell Renjun does the same from the twitch in his fingers around the parasol's handle. "I'm sorry I can't be of any more help to you, but if you want to come inside and rest for a while…" Yuta and Renjun share a look before accepting the offer as graciously as they know how.

Lucas' home is charmingly rustic, with wooden floorboards and warm colors painting every corner of the living room. There are dusty photographs on shelves, ceramic animals scattered about the coffee table and windowsills, and more--this is a true  _ home _ if Yuta's ever seen one. 

As much as he wants to bask in it though, he knows he came here for a reason. 

He's gentle at first, tries to pull what information he can out of Lucas without being too brash. At first he thinks Lucas is just too naive for his tricks, but it's only after fifteen or so minutes of interrogation disguised as smalltalk that he deftly maneuvers through without revealing much of anything at all that Yuta gives up.

He didn't really want to have to use it, but desperation is eating away at his constitution. He pulls out the silver medallion Junmyeon had passed on to him all those decades ago from his pocket, holding it midway up its chain and dangling it in front of Lucas' face.

"If this means anything to you, you can stop playing dumb right about now."

Lucas blanches when he comes face to face with the medallion, hospitality morphing to cold fear on his features at the raptor's faraway gaze. Gotcha.

"Do you know what this is, Lucas-ssi?"

"Kim Junmyeon," he says in dead shock, barely above a whisper.

"Your family owes a debt to mine, and the look on your face tells me you know that. I suggest you think carefully about your next words."

"I...I don't—"

Renjun interrupts him with something in Mandarin, and Yuta assumes it's a threat by the way the fear on Lucas' face intensifies. For several long moments the quaint living room is filled with a deafening silence.

"Okay," Lucas says, breaking the tension. "Okay, I'll—I'll tell you what I know."

"Be detailed," Renjun says.

"Chanyeol-hyung, he—"

"Chanyeol?" Yuta blurts, eyes going wide. "You knew Chanyeol?"

"Hyung?" Renjun asks, but Yuta's mind is racing.

Lucas draws his arms closer to himself, a telltale sign of discomfort. Ended on poor terms, Yuta surmises.

"Chanyeol was my sire," he admits, and again, Yuta is shocked speechless. Chanyeol had a ward that he never knew about--and somehow, somehow he knows Junmyeon didn't, either. "I'm sorry you didn't know, but it's true." He pauses for a moment. Yuta and Renjun exchange a glance before he motions for Lucas to continue.

"He never brought any of his work home, back to the estate. I knew he worked with Yixing, but as far as I was concerned, and the way he talked about it, their work was just...a side project. I didn't know who Yixing was until Chanyeol-hyung passed."

"He's dead?" Yuta balks. Baekhyun and Jongin disappeared off the face of the earth, and Junmyeon has been long dead. If Chanyeol is dead too, that means...

"How long ago did he die?" he asks, quieter this time.

"Four, five years ago now, maybe," Lucas says carefully, like he knows Yuta is a ticking time bomb. "I'm sorry. I don't know how or why. I try to forget about him. It's not good for me."

Yuta's eyes slide somewhere to the wall behind Lucas, lost in thought. "I see."

Everything in Yuta's mind has been completely thrown off course.

He's the only one left now.

"You knew Chanyeol?" Lucas ventures, a smile creeping onto his features. Yuta wishes he could return it.

"I did," he says. We were family. He watched me grow into who I am today. Then he shakes his head, bidding those thoughts away. They're irrelevant. "It doesn't matter. I was just surprised."

Lucas looks like he wants to ask more, but he thinks better of it. "It probably seems bad that I don't have much for you about him, but I didn't want to...Chanyeol-hyung was always good to me, really, but I couldn't carry on his legacy after finding out what he had been doing with Yixing."

Aren't you now? Yuta wants to say. Working on a farm might not be what Chanyeol had wanted for you, but like it or not, his history is yours, no matter how much you try to ignore it. But he doesn't, because he recognizes his own hypocrisy.

"What do you know of Yixing?" Yuta asks instead.

"I suppose you wouldn't be searching for him if you didn't already know what he had done. Honestly, the only thing I know about him is what Chanyeol-hyung told me about him on occasion...only ever small things, like him botching a surgical procedure or the stains on his lab coat, you know?"

It's not much to work with, and this time Yuta doesn't think he's lying. The way Renjun is worrying the cuticles on his fingers tell him he's thinking the same thing.

"Is there really nothing else you can give us? Anything at all?" Renjun says.

Lucas looks like he's about to say no, but then he freezes. "Well…"

He ends up leading them to a dusty closet in the rear end of his home. Inside is a variety of neatly stacked boxes of various sizes, like a Tetris round, all of them labeled in Chinese. Lucas pulls out a small one marked with the character for home.

"It's not very much, but I didn't keep very much of Chanyeol's belongings, anyway…"

He ruffles through a mess of papers in the box before unearthing a worn leather diary. He holds it out for Yuta to take.

Yuta expects it to contain more illegible handwriting, but he actually finds that it's pretty neat—too neat to be Chanyeol's. On the inside of the first page is Zhang Yixing's name written in English, followed by its Chinese counterpart. On the next page is a pressing of a dainty yellow flower with notes written in broken Korean. It's dated June, 1909. As he flips through the book, he finds that every single page is similar—flowers of varying shapes, sizes, and colors pressed carefully into off-white pages, with small anecdotes about them in Korean occasionally mixed with Chinese. Renjun looks hesitant to approach him with the journal in his hands

"I found it in Chanyeol's study," Lucas explains. "He had thrown out everything that belonged to Yixing after their little spat, I thought. I don't know why he kept this one, but as far as Yixing goes, it's all I have."

Yuta nods as he talks, fluttering through the pages until he lands at a random entry, one depicting a lovely white flower with wide, spade-shaped leaves. The entry here is a short one, written in Chinese. He looks at Renjun expectantly.

"'Shanghai doesn't miss me, but that doesn't stop me from missing her,'" he translates. "You can only find these flowers in Shanghai. I guess he had gone home for a while."

Yuta skims through the rest of the journal with Renjun looking over his shoulder. It ends before all the pages are used up, with the final entry dated May, 2007; almost a hundred years of flower pressing. At this point the caption is written in perfect Korean, a jargon-filled paragraph detailing what Yuta can only assume was one of his experiments. He wonders absentmindedly if the page contains any blood residue.

"Is he still alive, hyung?" Renjun asks. He doesn't have an answer, and instead looks to Lucas for one. He shrugs.

"I don't know. I know the last entry is recent, but like I said, I never met him. These flowers are as close to him as I've ever been."

Yuta shuts the journal with one hand. "I appreciate your help, Lucas-ssi."

An alarmed look comes across his face at the implicit goodbye. "Wait—you're not taking the book, are you?"

"Why?"

"It's...It was important to Chanyeol-hyung, okay? And he's gone now, but that doesn't mean it can't be important to me, too."

"You forfeited your right to Chanyeol's belongings when you left his house to collapse in on itself," Yuta tells him coldly, and he doesn't know where the sudden cruelty has come from. "I'll leave you in peace, but right now, this journal is more important to me than it is you."

"Who are you to decide that?" Lucas barks, but it's just that—he doesn't make any move to stop him leaving or grab the book from out of his hands. Junmyeon's silver medallion hangs heavy in his pocket.

"The lives at stake matter more than your unearned sentimentality," Yuta bites, and then he's tugging Renjun by the wrist out into the hall, through the living room, and out of Lucas' homestead.

"Hyung," Renjun says worriedly once he's seated in the passenger seat of their car.

"I'm sorry," Yuta says, letting his hand fall from the keys as the engine roars to life. "I'm sorry, Injunnie." I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

"Hyung, I don't know what you're apologizing for," he says worriedly. "What's wrong? You looked so...I don't want to say scared, but I don't know what else to call it. Your hands were shaking, you know? Lucas didn't mention it, but I know he saw. Are you okay?"

It takes a moment for his brain to parse meaning from Renjun's words what with the rancorous stream of apologies to nobody flooding his mind. Had his hands been shaking? How could he not have noticed? How could he have been so cruel? How could he have been so cruel while Renjun was watching? He's supposed to be a role model, he's supposed to—

"Hyung, do you want me to drive?" Yuta doesn't know why Renjun's voice suddenly cuts through his inner turmoil, but it's a welcome relief.

"You're not old enough to drive," he says weakly, and Renjun scoffs. Before he knows it Yuta's being tugged out of the driver's side and ushered to the passenger seat. His head is still swimming.

The lights are still on in Lucas' home when they finally pull onto the dirt road, but the ponies are gone, now, and so is the sun. The air is warm and sticky, but their AC stopped working months ago, so he'll just have to deal.

The ride is silent all the way back to the hangar, and during the hour that passed, Yuta had tried to talk himself into chucking the silver medallion out of the window at least ten times. He can't bear to even look at it, let alone touch it. He wonders if Lucas still has Chanyeol's family crest, if it causes him as much heartache as Junmyeon's does.

When Yuta steps into the hangar, the endless thoughts of guilt are immediately silenced at what he sees.

"Jaemin, what the fuck."

In the middle of the lounge, Jaemin, Xiaojun, and Johnny—who's supposed to be underground—are laying around on cushions, their eyes trained on the old television that was apparently functioning again. Xiaojun whips his head around at Yuta's voice, terror clear on his face.

"Yuta-hyung is back," he announces to Jaemin, who looks entirely too preoccupied with the fantasy violence transpiring on the TV screen.

"That's interesting," he says absently, flinching when the character on screen takes damage, and it's then that Yuta sees Johnny is the one with the controller in hand, a zip tie tied tight around his ankles in what he can only assume was a precautionary measure.

Yuta marches in between them and the various pillows strewn about the floor and unplugs the television.

"Jaemin, do you understand what the term 'hostage' entails?" he demands, cutting off Jaemin's groans of protest. Johnny sets down the controller meekly, throwing up an uncertain peace sign when Yuta locks eyes with him. He kind of wants to kick him in the head.

Jaemin sits up halfway, supporting his body with his elbows. "Johnny isn't even that bad, though. He's kind of harmless, and he's better at Witcher than I am. Look, he's already at Skellige and he's playing on—"

"I kind of seriously don't give a shit how harmless you think he is!" he barks, and the subsequent silence is horrible, so he presses on. "Johnny isn't a fucking toy for your entertainment, do you understand? He's a chess piece. Do you want him to stab you in the back the second he drops the buddy-buddy act? Just because he's a human doesn't mean you can let your guard down, and this—" He gestures vaguely at the three of them, and Jaemin at least has the decency to finally look sheepish. "This is irresponsible, Jaemin."

Johnny "Hey, it's—"

"Shut your damn mouth," Yuta cuts him off sharply—and then he realizes something. "Where's Taeil?"

"He said he was going for a walk earlier this afternoon," Xiaojun supplies. "He said he wouldn't be out for long, but…"

That's—Jesus Christ. He can already feel the headache coming on, but he's already making a B-line for the hangar's side entrance. "Jaemin, get Johnny back in his cell and keep him there," he orders, and he's on his feet before he's even done talking. "I'll be back soon."

"Wait, hyung," Renjun calls when he's already got one foot out the door. "Do you want me to come with? In case…" In case something's happened to Taeil and Yuta can't carry him all the way home alone, in case they search the entire field and can't find him, in case—

"No, I'll be alright," Yuta assures him—or tries to at least, because he still looks doubtful. "If I'm not back in an hour, then come find me, okay?"

"Okay," Renjun acquiesces, then he gives him a small smile. "I'll hold down the fort for now, then. "

"Right," he says, and he's about to leave again when—

"Wait, hyung!"

Yuta turns back to look at him expectantly, and the headache is pinching even harder, now.

"Be careful, okay?"

Yuta rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother suppressing his own smile. "I will, Injunnie."

And after that it's just Yuta, a hopelessly dark sky, and the warm, stifling air that always accompanies the summer.

Yuta's always liked summer, really. It's always felt more real to him than spring or summer or winter, more alive—a reminder that he too is sentient and moving and breathing, no matter how many times he tries to forget, no matter how many times he succeeds.

He isn't really paying attention to where his feet are taking him, but considering the amount of flat land around the hangar, there's really only one place Taeil could be.

It's been a long, long time since Yuta's visited the railroad that runs into the city, so long that he couldn't give you a precise spot if you asked, just a general direction. And that general direction is where he's walking, but he's so lost in his thoughts that he trips on the steel bars that form the tracks and very nearly faceplants into the broken rocks that form its foundation. It doesn't look like anyone saw him, but he flushes anyway.

God, I wish this night would end, he thinks bitterly, but unfortunately he still has to face the decision of guessing which way down the tracks Taeil went.

Leading away from the station is nothing but more empty land, other empty hangars they couldn't get into, and probably an international border if they went far enough. Towards the city is, well, the city, as tall billboards and small ranches dot the land until they become in-the-works housing communities and real, paved roads. It's nighttime, but a lone stranger walking along steel tracks aimlessly would only rouse suspicion if he were to be seen, so Yuta sets off towards the vast nothing in the opposite direction.

His headache hasn't subsided, but it's far easier to bear in the night's silence and his own solitude, the crunch of his weight on the railroad's ballast the only reminder that he's still moving.

He has to apologize to Jaemin and Xiaojun. He should probably apologize to Lucas too, but who knows how far into the future that'll be. Yuta personally hadn't kept any of Junmyeon's belongings aside from the house crest and many, many decades of baggage he doesn't know what to do with.

The thought comes unbidden, but for once, he doesn't suppress it; his words to Yuta just a day after he had been turned: It's not uncommon for fledgelings to kill their sires, but I'm sure you'll make the right decision for yourself.

Yuta had thought about it off and on for years. What if he had killed Junmyeon? It wouldn't have exactly been difficult. Some days the mere idea made him feel sick to his stomach, and others it was the only thing that would ring in his mind for hours on end. He hadn't known anything about being a vampire back then—he knew the basics of subsisting off of blood and living only by night of course, but he hadn't an inkling about how many times he teetered on the edge of insanity from the isolation that it came with.

So, what if Yuta had killed him like he always wanted to? What would Jongin or Baekhyun have done? It's all too easy to imagine them suddenly turning on Yuta, chasing him out of their home, their country.

And what if Junmyeon was still alive now? What if he had taken over their coven like he had wanted, expected of Yuta after all? Would he have learned to be happy?

How much longer is Yuta going to dwell on it?

There's nobody to answer any of his questions. There never have been, and he knows that, and yet the comfort of inevitability has always escaped him.

He's lost track of how far he's been walking, but a humming sound just barely reaches his ears from a ways up the track and relief floods his chest.

Taeil is laying directly in between the two steel tracks on his back, staring up at the dark sky with his eyes closed. There's a faint smile playing on his lips.

"What are you doing," Yuta intones. Taeil sits up in one motion, beckoning Yuta to sit beside him. He obliges.

"I wanted to go on a walk," he says. "But then I just got so tired suddenly. So I took a sit, which turned into laying down, and I've kinda just been here for a while now."

There are a lot of ways Yuta could be feeling about that, but as it stands his heart is too tuckered out from the events of the last two hours. He throws an arm around Taeil and hugs him close, eating up his delighted squeal. "You're silly. Also, this is unsafe and I should be scolding you about it."

"You can if you want. I won't be mad."

Yuta doesn't. Of course he doesn't. They both know he wouldn't, no matter how much he wants to.

"It's been a while since we've been out here together," he says instead. Taeil hums an agreement.

"Do you remember when we first met?"

Yuta does, but not very well, which is odd considering Taeil has only occupied an infinitesimally small portion of his life.

"At the train station, right? Just before they closed down these tracks."

"Mhm," Taeil hums again. "You were so skinny back then. I was too, huh?"

"We were both hungry," Yuta says absently.

Honestly, Yuta had never felt more comfortable with anyone than Moon Taeil, and he thinks that's part of the reason why the memory of their first meeting is so fuzzy. Falling into his love was so easy, so effortless that he hadn't realized how important Taeil had become to him until they were so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world seemed to disappear—and that hadn't scared him, not at all. There was nothing more reassuring than knowing he had something as beautiful, as sacred as Taeil to come home to.

They both had been skinny back then. Yuta has had a lank frame for most of his life, but Taeil's near-emaciated body was a result of homelessness rather than a disturbingly efficient metabolism.

It had been a little over a year since he had dropped out of college, Yuta remembers, and his family had kicked him out just after he had graduated highschool. Yuta hadn't asked too many questions back then. At that point he felt fairly comfortable with human culture to understand the implications of being a homeless college dropout, but frankly, he hadn't cared. It didn't look like Taeil did, either. It was a long time before Taeil seemed to care about anything.

The very first station that the railroad tracks reach if you walk towards the city had been shut down five years ago due to concerns about vampires in the area. It was unsafe, and the stop wasn't well-used enough to justify having a full guard post, and so the lovely local government of Seoul had declared it inoperative in the wake of one of the worst summers Yuta had ever experienced.

It was a shame, too. The fears of vampire activity in the area weren't unwarranted; in fact, Yuta is pretty sure he's the person that single handedly got it closed down. For whatever reason, the stop was a popular hang-out spot for college students desperately avoiding schoolwork to either get excessively inebriated, or simply sit and cry. Considering the stop is at the very edge of the city, it was all too easy for Yuta to suck these people dry and leave them to rot in the sun a ways away from the station. He didn't even have to set any bait.

He had found Taeil curled up in between one of the rusted benches and the stone wall, eyes open but staring at nothing. He hadn't even batted an eyelash when Yuta had bared his fangs at him. Whether or not it was the familiar darkness in his eyes or just pure curiosity, it was obvious to him that he was starving, and so he had taken him to a ramen shop a gruelling three miles into the city and let him eat to his heart's content. It had been the last of the money he had earned from his last contract, and there hadn't been another in the three months that had passed since.

That ramen shop had since moved properties, but it's the most vivid memory he has of Taeil before their partnership began. After that he had asked Yuta if he could follow him wherever he was going (a shoddy apartment he planned to occupy until the eviction notice on the door expired and the landlord would have to discover the body he had drained), and he couldn't think of a reason to say no.

Yuta likes to think that learning to wield a dagger and steal anything he needed helped reestablish a sense of livelihood for Taeil. He had never had a partner in crime before, but Taeil had hardly any qualms with killing for money, and they worked well together. There wasn't very much else to it.

"You don't regret meeting me, do you?" he asks Taeil. Whether it's curiosity or insecurity or just a need to hear his voice, Yuta doesn't know. He's too tired to think about it.

Taeil's response was completely expected. "I don't. I don't regret anything about you at all." He nuzzles closer into Yuta's body. "You gave me a home."

Yuta understands the double meaning. "I love you, too."

They're silent for long enough for him to think Taeil had fallen asleep, then he speaks again. "Will you ever be ready to talk about your home?"

"It's been on my mind, recently," Yuta admits. He doesn't exactly know how to say what he wants to without actually saying it, but Taeil is patient. He's only ever been patient with Yuta, and he loves him for that.

"I just don't want you to think of me differently." he finally finishes. It's not a lie, but it doesn't quite match how he feels about his life with Junmyeon. How he was a complicit victim in a world that had turned everything he knew up on its head with a person he had wanted dead, a person whose voice he longs to hear again.

Taeil shuffles out of Yuta's half-embrace to face him with a serious gaze. "I won't, though. You know I won't."

Yuta looks at him, sees the single red jewel of Venus reflected in his eyes, courtesy of the dark firmament above them. He wants to kiss him, but maybe for once, he can be brave instead.

"I don't mean it like that," he says slowly. "I mean in the way nobody can help seeing someone different when you learn about their past. Regardless of whether or not you'll still like me, I don't...I don't want the old Yuta to be known." His eyes have glided down to the rough cuts of stone beneath them—they're loose, and big enough to be difficult to walk in. That's how he feels right now, taking uncertain steps on unfamiliar, unforgiving terrain as he tries to speak. Taeil squeezes his hand. Yuta doesn't look up. "I don't want that part of me to be vulnerable, because it's still an open wound."

Taeil waits a while before responding, a habit of good communication skills that took Yuta way too long to pick up. "Yuta, your wounds have to be exposed before someone else can heal them. You know that, right?"

Yuta nods, and a wisp of courage lets him raise his head to meet Taeil's gaze. It's still as warm as before.

"I'm never going to force you to talk about something you don't want to. But sometimes healing takes courage, and I think that cage you've built for yourself is a little too small, don't you think?"

Yuta can't help but smile at the metaphor, because it's apt.

He knows Taeil is right, of course. It's not fair to himself to make up reasons to keep whipping the horse skeleton in his closet for as long as he has been.

"I'll try harder to have courage," he promises, and Taeil gets this delighted look on his face, like a child who's just been given candy. He leans in to give Yuta a chaste kiss, and he definitely doesn't blush about it. "I told Renjun to come look for me if I wasn't back within an hour."

Taeil pouts but moves to stand anyway, and Yuta follows suit.

Taeil hogs Yixing's journal to himself the following day.

"I loved flowers when I was a kid," he says, flipping through the pages excitedly, and Yuta has to remind him gently that the paper is fragile. "I wanted to be a botanist, you know?"

Yuta does know. Taeil only ever told him that particular tidbit once, but he makes it a point to remember all of the little details that make him who he is.

When Taeil lands on the final page, his eyebrows furrow. "Huh."

"What is it?"

"These flowers are rare," Taeil rests a finger ever so lightly on one of its petals, almost awestruck. "They only grow in a very small and very specific part of Seoul—or outside of Seoul, rather. I heard you can't even reach it by car or anything. You have to go on foot."

The gears in Yuta's head start turning, increasing velocity by the second. If the last entry was dated as recently as it was…

"Do you know how to get there?" he asks, a little more urgent than intended. Taeil looks confused for a moment before he evidently comes to the same conclusion as Yuta.

"I've only been there once, but I might remember the way."

Before Yuta had hidden himself in a semi-human lifestyle in the city, he spent a lot of time around the popular mountain parks around Seoul, setting traps with what Mother Nature could provide him and collecting his meals by way of wayward tourists falling to their preordained deaths.

These mountains are different, though—in fact, they're sort of just really tall hills that happen to be horribly craggy. He understands why they're only traversable on foot, but he can't imagine anyone returning from where they are with anything less than two bruised ankles and a disdain for hiking.

Those were Taeil's words, anyway, and upon hearing that, Renjun had suggested that they go on horseback. Yangyang had been the only person really interested in getting the wild horses near the hangar to do their bidding, but he supposes he must have succeeded somewhat, because there are a handful grazing a little ways from their dwelling boasting white scars loosely tied around their neck. Their ears don't flatten nor do they get huffy when they approach, and Yuta supposes they're safe enough to ride.

Renjun and Yuta are comfortable enough steering a horse, but Taeil is far from it, so he shares with Yuta. Their horse—brown with a white smudge on its muzzle that gives it somewhat of a stupid appearance—doesn't seem bothered by their weight. After that, it's only a matter of stacking enough blankets on their backs in place of a saddle and tying ropes around their mouths as makeshift bridles, and then they're off.

The quickest way to where they hope Yixing's home runs through the human part of Seoul, and so they make a tacit decision to take the longer route that runs along an empty outgoing highway. It's...actually quite nice. Yuta has never been on a road trip before, but during his time living in the city, people had talked about it the way they talked about graduating highschool or moving out for the first time—like a treasured experience everyone should have before they grow up and are subsequently condemned to being a jaded adult. He likes to imagine that the feeling he gets passing by an endless swath of farmland as the moon draws a path across the sky is supposed to be the same feeling you get on roadtrips; the comfort of being in between, completely and wholly liminal, a small speck of existence in the vast unknown that was rural South Korea.

He's jerked back into reality when Taeil taps on his back suddenly, and points somewhere out in the dark distance.

"Here," he says eagerly, "The path is here."

"Here?" Renjun questions. Yuta can feel the movement of air on his neck where Taeil nods urgently, so he nudges the horse away from the highway and deeper into the dark, bucolic grassland where he directs.

The terrain steadily grows more and more rugged as they travel, until soon the rocky hills Taeil had described rise up on either side of them like tall, earthy cradles. As remote as the area seems, they come across at least two signs yelling at them in bold text to watch for falling rocks.

"Taeil?"

"Hm?"

"You said you'd been here once before, right?"

"I did."

"What brought you all the way out here on your own? This place seems really..."

"Perilous?" Renjun suggests.

"Yeah. That." Yuta agrees.

"Well...you know," Taeil says, knowing neither of them do. "Maybe I like perilous things. Did you know in Russia, their name for people who are friendly with vampires roughly translates to [ 'lovers of danger'?"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694079/chapters/31453332)

"I did, actually," Renjun says. Yuta doesn't respond, so Taeil squeezes the skin just above his hips where he's holding on. He wiggles violently enough with surprise for their horse to whinny at them in protest.

"What was that for?"

"I don't want you to worry about it, okay?" Taeil tells him. "I was young and stupid, and I liked flowers. It's really nothing."

"Who says I was worried about it?" Yuta tries to mutter under his breath, but the night is silent enough for him to hear it anyway.

"I say you're worried about it, because I know how you are and you think too loud."

"I'll knock you off this horse."

"You won't, because you love me."

"No I don't."

"You loooove me," Taeil coos at him, poking him in the side repeatedly just to be annoying.

Renjun snickers from beside them. "I can't tell if you guys are more like an old married couple or a stupid highschool couple."

"Shut the fuck up," Yuta says lacking any bite, at the same time Taeil says "You've never even been to highschool."

"No, but I've seen a lot of movies," Renjun laughs.

The horses do surprisingly well on the rocky terrain. Taeil has to reassure them several times that they're on the right path, but eventually the sun begins its slow ascent over the horizon, and they're forced to take refuge in a nearby cave—at least, Yuta doesn't really know what else to call it. It looks like someone took a massive ice cream scoop and gouged out a perfectly circular hole in the side of a stone wall.

Renjun brings in the blankets from the horses' backs once he's done tying them around the trunk of a dying tree, collapsing on top of them in a huff at the far end of the cove.

"I really hope this trip was worth it," he says face-down in the pile of fabric, voice muffled. Then he lifts his head. "You know, back in Jilin, our horses had these massive shades, like real caravans that block out all sunlight. Why don't we have those?"

"Because we have cars, probably," says Taeil, sitting at the edge of the cave's entrance watching the sun rise. The blonde dye in his hair is colored white at the edges from the sun's light.

"Ah. Right."

Yuta scooches over on the stone ground to sit by Renjun. The way the cave is angled, the sun will only light it up in thin curtains of light. It'd make for a good hideout, if they ever needed it. "No cars back in China?"

"We had them, but our roads were always better suited for horses or motorcycles," he finally lifts his head from the blankets, sitting up into a kneeling position. "Worked well enough for us, I guess. No reason to really change."

That's fair, Yuta supposes, and Taeil agrees. They spend the rest of the morning sharing anecdotes about the places they've grown up, and while Renjun spares no detail about his youth in Jilin, Yuta can tell that Taeil is very selective about what he chooses to share about his life in the heart of Seoul.

He's not one to judge, because he does the same. Everybody in the coterie knew how old he was, but he's not sure he'd be able to keep himself together if he ever had to talk about life in Korea before—before…

Before everything.

Thankfully nobody asks him to, and he's mostly quiet while Taeil and Renjun have their own back-and-forth. It's heartwarming in an unfamiliar way, watching two people he loves share the story of their lives. He thinks Junmyeon had tried to have these kinds of bonding times with him at several points, but Yuta doesn't remember them, nor does he try to.

They're all feeling antsy by the time the sun sets once more, grateful to be out of stone walls that became stifling only after a couple of hours.

Eventually they come to a small, dusty clearing, in the center of which sits an equally dusty looking home. Beside its front steps sit a collection of small flower pots, some bearing cacti, some withered flowers, and others nothing at all. Taeil runs up to them as soon as Yuta has helped him off of the horse.

"This is it," he says, holding up a pot with a withered stem to both Yuta and Renjun. "The last flower in the book. Normally I find them growing in crags and stuff, I don't imagine they do well in soil like this…"

It...kind of looks like the flower in the final page of Yixing's journal, if you reached far enough. Yuta doesn't like the feeling of performing a visual autopsy on the dried-up corpse of a flower.

When they head inside, all of his senses are assaulted by a dwelling that somehow simultaneously smells like life and death.

The life part, Yuta suspects, comes from the myriad of plants occupying every open surface of Yixing's home—large pots hang from the ceiling bearing massive ferns and flowering plants in various stages of decay (some, surprisingly, seem in perfect health) reach down towards the ground, a few of them low enough to tickle the tops of their heads; a bookshelf dedicated exclusively to succulents and small cacti, their spines brown and brittle; weeds have even begun sprouting up through the floorboards, some patches thicker than others. It looks exactly like how Yuta imagines an abandoned garden would look like, and if the rampant atrophy wasn't atmospheric enough, there's almost no light coming into the house, forcing them to poke around with the toes of their shoes to move around.

"What a hermit," Renjun comments, nervously inspecting one of the shelved cacti, hissing as a thorn breaks off into the tip of his finger. "I guess he definitely doesn't live here anymore."

Eventually Yuta finds a wall of disturbingly thick vines covering a window, and light pours in bit by bit as he cuts away the mass of flora.

"Oh!" Taeil says sharply, and there's the telltale sound of someone stumbling backwards in surprise.

"What's—Oh."

Now illuminated by the freshly unearthed window, a body slumps over a workstation of rotting wood, a knife slotted right at the base of its neck down to the hilt.

"Gross," Taeil comments. "I guess that's Yixing?"

There are papers scattered all over the floor, along with drawers pulled out from the side of the table and carelessly dumped out. Some of them seem to be journal entries, others manuscript drafts, but all of them are authored to one Zhang Yixing indeed.

"Hyung, this place was robbed," Renjun says, kneeling down and shuffling through some of the papers. "Everything here is worthless—they're just notes, or fragments of notes, but they're part of a larger work."

Of course, the following question dances around the silence of the house, none of them willing to give it voice.

Figuring it's the best place to start searching for clues, Yuta leans over the body and unearths the blade with a disturbing amount of ease; Yixing must have been dead for a long time before they came. He inspects the surface of the blade, its metal surface mostly clear what with the blood drained to the lower half of the corpse, and his jaw nearly drops. Engraved into the black metal is a symbol Yuta hasn't seen for a long, long time: [ a dilated oval with a plus sign directly in the center, its lines extending out from the oval's boundaries in what resembles a distorted crosshair.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/625503391828803609/768324177743577128/0212_nct_conts_1080.png)

Taeil, noticing his expression, comes up to his side and puts a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

Yuta thinks he should feel more shocked than he is, maybe even a little anxious—but right now, all he feels is pure anger.

"The House of Repose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now accepting bets for who you guys think the big baddie of this fic is  
> chapter 4 song rec, and also a spoiler for next chapter: [kikuo - great tunnel adventure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejDXgdC0QRM)
> 
> also just a note, i promise i didnt mean for there to be so many things inspired by dragon age in this, they all just kind of happened to fall into place. ive played each game in the dragon age series 4 times over so everything about thedas is seared into my mind permanently honestly


	5. Chapter 5

Back when Doyoung had been in highschool, it was at minimum a bi-semester occurrence for him to be peer pressured into accompanying his friends into the northern part of the city, an area of Seoul that was colloquially known as 'The Northern End.' Although never officially demarcated by the government, it was common knowledge in all of the country that it was the district of vampires, and venturing there without proper understanding of this fact unequivocally spelled certain bodily or psychological harm for the individual in question.

Doyoung and his friends would, of course, venture into the Northern End anyway, and nothing would ever come of it other than bragging rights to the rest of their classmates the following Monday. He hadn't known what to expect the first time—maybe a dark and decrepit wasteland where he could be jumped any second; or maybe a rainy and depressing cityscape straight out of  _ Sweeney Todd, _ where love and laughter were naught but faraway dreams and people ate despair for breakfast.

The latter part might have been true after all, he thinks as their carriage driver lets them out in front of a hotel on the edge of a bustling streetside in the middle of what he thinks is downtown, or maybe it's just Taeyong's general aura that kind of makes him want to jump off a bridge no matter where they are.

He does help him out of the carriage without Doyoung even asking for help though, which is worth one brownie point even if he shoves a parasol into his hand and speed walks off in a random direction without warning immediately after. Taeyong already has his own unfurled over his head, a dark lacey pattern adorning the fabric casting a dark shadow to compliment his dark cloak.

Even though it's daytime, the sidewalk is fairly crowded with people milling around, all of them carrying with them some sort of shade whether it be parasols, awfully wide-brimmed hats, or even mantles with comically large hoods like the one Doyoung has. He chooses to use the parasol anyway, if only to make it easier for Taeyong to find him should anything happen.

Doyoung jogs to catch up to him. From what he understands, their escort wouldn't take them directly to the courier for his own safety—deniability, and all that.

Both of them come to a stop at a small bus depot, Taeyong observing a large map printed and framed on the side of a brick wall.

It's a horrible tangle of color coded lines that Doyoung assumes are bus routes disappearing into and out of each other, with a legend nearly as complex; all that is to say, it's indecipherable.

"This is indecipherable," he tells Taeyong, who folds his arms and turns to look somewhere off in the distance, thinking.

"I think you might be right, Kim Doyoung," he says tonelessly. "I suppose it'll be easier to walk. I don't think we're very far from the meeting place, anyway."

The cramped carriage ride from Jaehyun's home had been a little over two hours; Doyoung wouldn't mind stretching his legs a little.

"But wait," he says, "Can other vampires tell that I'm human?"

"Not unless one is actively trying to figure it out, but you should be fine with me around, even if they do. But…" Taeyong takes a small step backwards and gives him a once-over. Then he reaches forward to pull Doyoung's hood over his head. "Better safe than sorry."

With that they set off into the city, Doyoung keeping close behind Taeyong as they move with the river of people that seem to appear from nowhere as they move down the streets. It's kind of hard though, because his eyes are drawn to everyone that swims around him; or rather, their clothing. Some are dressed in long black clothing that conceal their forms much like Doyoung's, while others are dressed in business suits and flowery dresses, traditional hanboks and casual summer wear, all of them carrying parasols to block the sunlight.

The roads and buildings draw his attention, too. While there is a steady stream of cars on the street, every so often a horse-drawn carriage or a borderline ancient looking tram will pass by, making Doyoung think he should be seeing everything in sepia. It's a surreal mix of antiquated and modern, the zeitgeists of 1920 and 2020 curling around each other before his very eyes like it's nothing.

Time period incongruities aside, it's all fairly...normal. The buildings and infrastructure are exactly the same as Doyoung's Seoul, and for a heartbeat he feels an all-consuming sadness that a distinction even has to be drawn about his Seoul and Taeyong's Seoul.

Or maybe there really doesn't have to be a distinction in the first place.

"Do you know where you're going?" he asks Taeyong, leaning into his space to be heard above the crowd. Taeyong looks at him from the corner of his eyes, hardly even turning his head.

"If I said no, would you still follow me? What if I was leading you to your death right now?"

If Doyoung had an equally snarky response, it's silenced by the surprised grunt that's tugged from his throat when Taeyong suddenly stops, sending Doyoung colliding into his back.

"Here," Taeyong says, gesturing with his head towards a building that looks positively antebellum, like it jumped straight out of a history textbook. The sign above the double doors read  _ EX'ACT ART GALLERY _ in faded white text. When he looks at Taeyong questioningly, he just shrugs, and they both go inside.

There's a young girl leaning haphazardly on the receptionist desk, and she fixes them with a bored expression as they approach.

"You need a ticket to enter the gallery," she says with a mixture of boredom and irritation. He and Taeyong share another look before he glances both ways, leans over the desk, and whispers something to the receptionist. She's flushing profusely when he pulls back, and rushes to the door to hold it open for them while in a deep bow. "Please enjoy," she says, closing the door behind them gently.

"What'd you tell her?" Doyoung asks him. The gallery is, apparently, much larger on the inside than its facade would suggest, because the cramped hall their dark parade traverses opens up into a room big enough for a decently sized restaurant. The walls are a metallic silver, with large, equidistant panels hanging down from the ceiling, on which paintings of various sizes and mediums are affixed. There are three other steel-gray doors placed dead center in the other three walls, unlabeled and vaguely menacing.

"Oh, you know. Nothing but your good old-fashioned abuse of power to get out of paying for things," he says, and Doyoung holds back a sigh of disapproval. Taeyong approaches the nearest painting, a massive oil piece depicting an overhead view of Seoul. "This is pretty." He looks like he wants to touch it, but in the end restrains himself.

It's certainly a beautiful painting, Doyoung has to agree, even if he probably lacks the technical knowledge to truly appreciate it. He supposes art doesn't always have to be that deep, anyway. "I didn't take you for a patron of the arts."

Taeyong huffs a laugh at that, turning to him with a somewhat lopsided smile that Doyoung thinks is absolutely adorable. He immediately beats the thought back with a mental broomstick. "I dabble. Hard not to when Jaehyun's been in your life for as long as he has been."

It's a familiar sentiment. He knows a lot more than he cares to admit about the minutiae of theater production just by virtue of being adjacent to Johnny for most of their college life. He returns the smile. "This place is fucking empty, though."

It is. Their voices bounce off the panels hanging from the ceiling, amplifying their voices even though they're talking relatively quietly.

Taeyong hums. "Well, we've got three doors to try."

That they do. They agree on the door straight ahead on the opposite wall, which turns out to be an equally large room dedicated to sculptures, each of them housed in glass cases suitable for their size, if not otherwise nailed to the wall or fenced off with wire.

They both spot the figure at the same time—his back is to them, donning a soft beige sweater and jeans and observing a casing full of blown-glass animals. Doyoung catches him watching their approach in their reflection, but he doesn't turn around until Taeyong taps his shoulder.

"Are you the courier?"

The courier looks momentarily confused before he suddenly claps his hands and gives them both a dazzling smile. It makes him look positively boyish, emphasized by the messy bangs that fall into his eyes. "Ah! You're finally here!"

"I hope you weren't waiting for very long," Doyoung says, but the courier shakes his head earnestly.

"No! Not at all—oh, I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?" He immediately enters a ninety degree bow, and Doyoung has to take a quick step backwards, just barely avoiding the boy's head from colliding with his torso. "I'm Liu Yangyang. It's a pleasure to meet you." His politeness is enthusiastic, and honestly a little unnerving. The look he shares with Taeyong tells him he agrees. Yangyang's back straightens in an instant, and he gives Doyoung a curious look. "I know who Lee Taeyong is, of course, but I can't say I know who you are."

"Kim Doyoung," he introduces himself, and Yangyang laughs.

"Jaehyun told me your name, of course. I mean who are you?"

"I'm not really anyone," Doyoung admits, momentarily shocked at Yangyang's forwardness. "Taeyong and I are just working together for the time being. I'm noone special."

Yangyang purses his lips at that, rocking back and forth on his heels, presumably picking his next words carefully. "It sounds sad when you say it like that, but I understand," he says. "If you're working with Lee Taeyong, I'm sure you'll become somebody soon, anyway." He claps his hands suddenly again, and Doyoung realizes that he had his sleeves rolled up before; it's now glaringly obvious that his sweater is too big on him, sleeves now falling over his hands in big brown sweater paws. Doyoung wonders if they're in safe hands. "I'm sure you guys don't want to waste time, though, right? Shall we get going?" Yangyang is already bounding off towards the door before they have a chance to respond, and Doyoung finds himself at a loss for words.

"I'm just as baffled as you are, but I trust Jaehyun more than anyone in this world," Taeyong says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him close to whisper. "His contacts can be pretty all over the place as far as character goes, but they're always competent. Don't worry too much."

That...actually does quell Doyoung's heart a little, and he smiles gratefully. "Alright. If you trust Jaehyun, then I trust you."

Taeyong holds his gaze for a little longer than necessary, again, like he's searching, then removes himself from Doyoung's personal bubble to follow after Yangyang. It takes him a moment for his brain to boot up again, and when it does he can't help feeling like something's gone over his head.

"Are you taking us to the House of Re—"

"Shh!" Yangyang hushes Taeyong sharply. "Don't say their name out loud. They could be anywhere." He glances around him suspiciously to make a point, the three of them surrounded by strangers in public once more, "But no, not right now. Not while the sun's out. "

"So where are we going?" Doyoung asks while Taeyong is too preoccupied looking vaguely affronted. He supposes he wouldn't be used to being interrupted like that, growing up as royalty and all.

"A hotel," Yangyang tells them. "It took a long time to get here from where I live, and I'm kind of sleepy. I want to take a nap."

At that Taeyong casts him a look so unimpressed that all of the weeds sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk probably wither and die, but he says nothing, so Doyoung doesn't, either.

As opposed to the dingy motel he had been expecting, their hotel room ends up being rather spacious, split into two separate bedrooms with a shared bathroom and a nice view of the city a handful of stories above the ground. Taeyong wordlessly claims the room with the single bed, leaving Doyoung to share a space with Yangyang. Their beds are separated, at least, and Yangyang actually does pass out immediately after shrugging off his shoes.

(He sleeps with his socks on,  _ on top of the blanket, _ and Doyoung is almost certain Jaehyun had them partner up with a psychopath.)

Doyoung spends about half an hour scrolling mindlessly through his old conversations with Johnny before deciding that making himself depressed for no reason is decidedly not where it's at, so he wanders into Taeyong's room out of boredom to find him sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, the two daggers Jaehyun had given them lain out on the bed sheets. He isn't doing anything besides staring at them. His back is ramrod straight, hands resting on either of his knees primly; in the corner of his room is his mantle folded into a weirdly perfect rectangle, his shoes paired against the wall measured up to the heel.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Taeyong looks up at him, blinks once.

"You said you wouldn't ask that again."

Oh. He did, didn't he? "Sorry. I'll try better next time." Taeyong isn't glaring at him this time, so he steps deeper into the room to inspect the daggers. Taeyong lifts the one with black metal by the hilt, tilts it this way and that as if testing its weight.

"I'm not going to use this," he says. "Jaehyun knows I wouldn't use this. I don't know why he'd give it to me."

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, not at all. It's well made, in fact. Too well made to use. He knows I like pretty things."

Taking a risk, Doyoung takes a seat on the bed; still far enough that their legs aren't touching, but close enough to inspect the black dagger up close. The blade is simple, smooth and double-edged; the hilt, however, has an ornamental pattern engraved into the rubber, giving it an almost Celtic look. "Could it have been a gift?"

Taeyong throws him a look almost like he wants to roll his eyes, but it morphs into something considerate. He sets it down gently. "Maybe." He takes the other dagger then, tossing it into the air so that it somersaults and catching it by the hilt, then holds it out for Doyoung to take. "This one is yours, though. I'm hoping you know how to stab things?"

"Might be a little rusty, but I can manage," he quips, taking it from him. He can see his reflection clearly in the metal's surface. "I'm guessing this is silver?"

Taeyong nods. "Probably worth a fortune too, if you're getting it from Jaehyun."

"Hm. I'll keep that in mind." He watches Taeyong fold the black knife back up in its leather pouch. "What will you use, though?"

Taeyong's bottom lip sticks out just slightly enough for it to be a pout while he thinks, and Doyoung's brain short circuits, hardly recovering quickly enough to catch Taeyong's response. "Could always buy a new one, I guess."

One smuggled keycard from beneath Yangyang's sleeping frame and a thirty minute walk later, Doyoung finds himself facing a wide array of all manner of knife, sword, or other form of melee weaponry from behind a glass case—because there were shops dedicated to this kind of thing, apparently. He had balked at the 'Guaranteed At Least 70% Silver!' sign on the front door; at that rate, it might as well have been explicitly promoting homicide. He hadn't given voice to his thoughts.

Taeyong spends a fairly long time looking through the shop's selection. Some of them look like something he would find in his kitchen back home, while others look like they were made for decoration more than close combat—or cooking.

"I kind of didn't think this would take so long," he says to Taeyong, stifling a yawn. He's been comparing two near-identical sickles for the last fifteen minutes. "Do you have to let the wand choose you or something?"

Taeyong doesn't blink, nor does he even deem him with a look. "Reference  _ Harry Potter _ at me again and I'm putting you on the next bus to the ass-end of this town and leaving you there."

There's no bite to his words, and a laugh bubbles up out of Doyoung's throat after the brief shock that Taeyong has, in fact, read Harry Potter passes. "I thought it would go over your head. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, I am, too," he responds, scrunching up his nose when he evidently comes to the decision that neither of the sickles showcased are to his liking. "Human fiction is...interesting."

"It can be colorful," Doyoung agrees. He doesn't understand why Taeyong is suddenly conversational, but he'll take it. "Do you read a lot?"

"When I was younger, yeah. Not so much nowadays." He follows Taeyong to another part of the shop, this one housing short swords and rapiers. The latter, Doyoung thinks, would suit Taeyong's person perfectly. "Every year on my birthday, Kun-hyung would always buy me books from a myriad of human authors. I always liked the classic ones best."

"What's your favorite?" he asks, and then his brain processes something. "Wait, I thought vampires didn't celebrate birthdays."

"Vampires like me age the same way humans do. It's why we're viewed as...unsuitable for the throne," he explains after a short pause. "Can't have a king that's going to croak in a measly eighty years, after all."

It seems like early deaths aren't exactly uncommon anyway, Doyoung wants to say, but he doesn't because it might offend. It's another piece of the puzzle that is vampire life though, so he tucks it away in his mental storage room accordingly. "So, how old are you?"

"Twenty-five," he answers, beckoning over the store clerk and pointing out something that kind of looks like a machete, single-edged with a horizontal tip and a dusty black finish. "And my favorite book is  _ No Longer Human, _ by the way."

Doyoung's heard of it, but he hasn't read it himself. "Is it about...becoming a vampire?"

Taeyong looks at him like he's grown another head, only glancing away to hand the shopkeep a single gold coin that must be worth more than Doyoung's person based on the way his eyes bulge out of his head. He slides the sheathed blade over the counter almost zombie-like in his shock, and Taeyong tosses a 'keep the change' over his shoulder as they exit. "I guess that's a valid conclusion to come to based on the title, but no, it's not. It's about feeling outcast from society."

"Ah," Doyoung says. "Can you relate?"

"I'd call you insane if you've never felt like your existence was a mistake at least once in your life," he tosses back casually, but his expression is anything but serious. He looks almost contented even, and Doyoung decides that it's a good look on him. Taeyong nudges his side so he remembers his parasol. "Would you agree?"

There's a lot to unpack in his statement, more than Doyoung is equipped to handle right now. "I would."

On the way back to the hotel, he contemplates what it must be like to be raised to inherit a home that doesn't want you.

Two o'clock that following morning finds the three of them standing in front of a bar whose sleek, modern facade is strikingly incongruent compared to the buildings made of old stone and wood that it's sandwiched between. The massive sign flashing the name  _ NEO ZONE BAR & LOUNGE _ in alternating orange and purple had been visible from several streets away, and according to Yangyang, this is where they'd find what they were looking for.

Taeyong looks like he has zero faith in Yangyang's hunch, but again he says nothing and lets himself be led into the building. Doyoung follows.

It's dark inside, the only lights available gently colored and hardly bright enough to illuminate anyone's face more than halfway. It's also unexpectedly crowded, the buzz of patrons completely inaudible from the outside. Yangyang flashes a card at one of the bouncers, a woman who doesn't look intimidating as much as she looks two seconds away from plunging the sharper end of her heels into someone's neck. Doyoung avoids eye contact.

They choose a small booth towards the back of the bar in an area where the lights hardly reach, a veritable blind spot. Beside him Taeyong rests his hand nervously on the hilt of his new machete. "What should we be looking for?"

"Anything suspicious, of course," Yangyang says in a way that's somewhere between completely unbothered and condescending, and Doyoung doesn't even know how that's possible.

Taeyong pins him with a look. "We're gonna need a little bit more than that to go off, Yangyang."

"Don't worry about it!" Yangyang reassures. His bright, boyish smile returns, all teeth and no pretence (which Doyoung assumes is a pretence in itself), "Honestly, when you see one of them, you'll just kind of know. They have this look about them, you know?"

"No," Taeyong says blandly.

"How do you know what they look like?" Doyoung asks as a preventative measure. Taeyong, thankfully, settles back into the booth with an annoyed huff.

"Oh, you know," Yangyang says coquettishly, "I've been here, I've been there," Then he leans in conspiratorially, and Doyoung realizes that his nails are painted alternating black and purple, glinting in the light, "And between you and me, I'm older than I look." Then he winks, and Doyoung wishes he had just let Taeyong chew him out like he very clearly still wants to.

In fact, it takes a solid fifteen minutes for him to suddenly stand from the booth and announce that he's going to get some drinks from the island. Yangyang answers with a chipper 'Okay!', and Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to follow him—maybe he secretly fears that any moment spent alone with Yangyang increases his chance of hearing something he doesn't want to—but he does. Taeyong jumps when Doyoung's hand lands on his shoulder to let him know he's there as they slither their way through the crowd; he glares daggers at him for startling him, but his gaze softens when he realizes who it is. It's only a moment that the look is shared, but again Doyoung finds himself thinking about how sweet Taeyong looks when he isn't on the defense, when his claws are sheathed and his eyebrows not stitched together with an expression of vague discontent.

"You don't trust him," Doyoung states once they're reseated. The lights are brighter here, and he can see Taeyong's face better.

Taeyong draws circles onto the marble surface of the island. "It's not that I don't trust him. It's just that he's…"

"...Weird?" Doyoung finishes for him. Taeyong shakes his head.

"No, it's not even that. It just feels like he knows more than I do."

Ah. That, Doyoung can understand. "It's not fun being in the dark, but you said you trust Jaehyun's judgement, right? At least we're confused as hell and fearing our wellbeing together."

Taeyong snorts, eyes lighting up with amusement. He turns to wave down the bartender. "Such a romantic, Kim Doyoung."

For some reason, Doyoung becomes suddenly aware of how out in the open they are. Most of the patrons are preoccupied with themselves or their own parties, but he thought assassin hunting required a bit more espionage—especially Taeyong. "Shouldn't you be a bit more inconspicuous?" he asks after voicing his thoughts.

"Royal publicity is near nonexistent," Taeyong tells him after ordering a tall glass of water, earning a puzzled look from the bartender. "And if it wasn't obvious what with all the cloak and dagger, we're serious about our privacy. I've never really liked making a big fuss of myself, anyway."

Now that's difficult for Doyoung to wrap his head around, coming from a society that demands the constant surveillance of celebrities, their whereabouts, recent purchases, what they had for breakfast that morning, and everything else under the sun. He's halfway through asking Taeyong if there's Twitter for vampires when something glints from across the island and catches his attention.

From the way he's angled Doyoung can only see his side profile, with no less than five earrings of various shapes adorning his ear. There's a hint of a tattoo crawling up the side of his neck, obscured by a dark leather jacket and a myriad of necklaces, and when he waves a hand to beckon the bartender over, he sees that every one of the stranger's fingers are adorned with rings. His maroon eyeshadow matches the color of the drink he's brought some moments later, and he's so preoccupied with watching him, waiting for him to take a drink that he doesn't even realize Yangyang has found a seat beside him at the bar, saying something to Taeyong that's making him scowl.

"I asked for water because it'll be a little difficult to find who we're looking for if I'm inebriated, don't you think?" he's saying. If Yangyang has registered his irritation, he doesn't react to it at all, bright-eyed and wholly unbothered.

"Sure, but this place has really good drinks, you know?" Yangyang tells him, legs swinging back and forth where they don't reach the floor.

"What, do you come here often?"

"Here and there," Yangyang says. Taeyong's scowl deepens.

"Can you ever give a straight answer for anything?"

It's a good question, but Doyoung wouldn't have heard the answer even if Yangyang hadn't leaned in to whisper something in his ear conspiratorially, because his attention has returned to the bedazzled stranger. It's subtle, blink-and-you'll-miss-it quick, but as he lifts the glass his pinky makes a deliberate swipe at the bottom of it, and Doyoung watches a strip of paper slip into his loose jacket sleeve. Then he sets the drink down and stands with feigned casualness, and Doyoung loses him in the procession. Apprehension grips his heart until he catches the same glint of the stranger's jewellry passing through an unmarked door at the other end of the bar, a dark rectangle blending in well enough that it's impossible to tell it's even there unless it was opened before you.

He's on his feet before he can tell Taeyong where he's going, counting to fifteen in his head before opening the black door slowly. Warm outside air greets him, as does a staircase spiralling downward into a grimy looking alleyway. He's about to start his descent when a voice carries up from below—

"...Another one? So soon after Kun?" it's saying, just barely loud enough to be heard over his own racing heart. He lets the door fall closed as quietly as possible and crouches down.

A different voice this time. "I follow the money. It pays better than thieving or smuggling, and as far as I'm concerned, that's the only thing that really matters. I'm not here for the thrill of The Game like you are."

"This is the third hit in two months, man. Before, we hardly did three hits in a  _ year. _ What's got you so bloodthirsty?"

Doyoung chances a look over the railing of the platform. He can't see much other than a slice of vibrant red hair, and he doesn't want to risk leaning his whole body over, so he returns to a crouch.  _ Red hair. I can remember red hair and earrings. _

The second voice ignores him. "Will you be there or not?"

The following pause is long and heavy, and Doyoung's position is uncomfortable. He doesn't dare move, hardly dares to breathe.

"I will. But after this...I don't know what after this. But I'll be there, okay?"

A shuffle of feet, the end of a conversation. "I'll see you there, then."

The door is thankfully well oiled, completely silent as Doyoung opens it and slips back into the bar, taking care to let it shut again as silently as possible. Taeyong and Yangyang aren't where they had been back at the bar, though, and he flounders for a moment before he's pulled aside by the arm.

"Where did you go?" Taeyong demands, the grip on his arm harsh.

"Taeyong, I found them—they were talking about Kun, about a new contract." Taeyong's eyes widen, and he looks around to make sure nobody is watching them before he pulls him through the building and back to their booth. Yangyang is sitting there primly as if he'd been there for the last twenty minutes, and offers them a wave.

"Tell us what you saw."

Doyoung does. It's not very much, he knows, but they have a description of a person and enough context to put together that whoever he had been eavesdropping on had inside knowledge of Kun's murder.

"Are they still here?" Yangyang asks him.

"I don't know. As far as I could tell the alleyway only had one exit, but…"

"But you didn't actually see them leave the same way they entered," Taeyong finishes his sandwich. Doyoung shakes his head. Yangyang then stands with a flourish, expression suddenly serious.

"It hasn't been very long. They can't be far, right?" he says. "Show us where they went."

Doyoung leads them to the nondescript door and down the aching metal staircase into the alleyway where, lo and behold, a trail of footprints in the gravel cuts off abruptly at a rotting cellar entrance. Yangyang is prying open the doors before any of them have time to ask questions.

"Wait, do we know what's in there? Or where it leads?"

"Only one way to find out," Yangyang tells him. "Plus, you want to find your guy, right? We need to  _ go." _

Taeyong seems to agree with Yangyang, so Doyoung doesn't protest. He doesn't even have time to mentally brace himself for what he might find beneath the surface before he's following in after them.

The hole is cramped making it an awkward climb down, hard stone brushing against Doyoung's shoulder blades as the moon's light disappears only to be replaced by a warm light from below.

It really is a cellar, too, with real, actual barrels of what he assumes is alcohol stacked on top of each other in a wide hall. At the other end is a wine stand far wider than it is tall bearing an endless selection of bottled wine. Yangyang takes off at a brisk stride down the cellar, looking this way and that until he nears the end and his face brightens.

"Here!" he calls. Doyoung doesn't really know what he had been expecting—maybe Edgar Allen Poe and a long metal chain for homicidal purposes—but instead he finds a large section of the stone wall gouged out by what he can only assume was dynamite. The entrance leads into another long tunnel lit by torches.

What the hell is with these tunnels? This one seemed wider than the others at least, with enough room for the three of them to stand shoulder to shoulder and still have room to spare, but he seriously doesn't know what he's getting into right now.

"They run all over the city," Taeyong says, and Doyoung realizes he had spoken out loud. "They're old and people pretend they don't exist, but they do, and we're going."

It's just as old and dusty as the tunnel he had met Taeyong in after the wedding, and it's still unnerving even with two other people with him. He's heard enough stories of mines collapsing and trapping people, sometimes killing them via suffocation. The wooden supports posted along the walls are old and splintering, and he tries to ignore them.

Yangyang is lightly jogging ahead of them, eyes trained on the mixed trail of footsteps that are more visible in the loose dirt on the ground.

"What are we even supposed to do when we find them?" Doyoung asks after they've been walking for fifteen minutes and the tunnel backdrop looks like a single frame that's been copy-pasted over and over.

"Theoretically? Kill them. Or hand them in to the council and have them pass judgement—which would likely be death." Taeyong answers.

Okay. That's...okay. "And realistically?"

Taeyong thinks for a moment. "The same, hopefully."

Cool. Maybe Doyoung can turn around and pretend he doesn't see or hear Taeyong passing judgement; deniability, deniability. He's only here to bring Johnny home after all. Everything else is none of his business. He's an indifferent party on the morality of the situation; nothing more, nothing less.

Speaking of. "Can we maybe hold off on the killing until we find out what happened to Johnny?" Doyoung flinches at his own phrasing, but Taeyong doesn't acknowledge it.

"We'll see," is his answer, and that really isn't what Doyoung wants to hear, but Taeyong has this look in his eyes that tells him he's probably not going to listen to any of Doyoung's reason. He and Yangyang share a look, but neither of them say anything, and they keep moving.

After what seems like both a minute and an eternity they come to what appears to be a hub, a large circular room with four other tunnels diverging in different directions. It's here the footprints split off into the two tunnels farthest from each other. Yangyang looks at one, looks at the other, then looks at both of them.

"I'll take the left, you guys right."

"Fine," agrees Taeyong. "Meet back here?"

Yangyang nods and then he's taking off, tearing after the footprints and kicking up dirt in his wake.

"Keep your guard up," Taeyong warns when they enter their tunnel. He isn't sprinting like Yangyang, but Doyoung is still suspended in between jogging and speed walking to keep up. "You really never know what's in these hellholes."

He nods. The dagger Jaehyun had given him hangs heavy in his sheath at his side, and for a moment cold dread writhes in his gut. He knew this would be dangerous, but he hadn't considered being the person putting  _ others _ in any kind of danger at all, let alone mortal ones. Hopefully he can just sit back and let Taeyong take the lead; that's what he's been doing all this time anyway, right? Right. Indifferent party. He refuses to return home with blood on his hands.

He doesn't realize his hand has risen to his cheek until Taeyong's hand is on his wrist gently pulling it down. "You're picking at it."

Oh. His stitches. "Sorry. Didn't realize."

"Are you nervous?"

Yes. Absolutely. Too nervous to admit it, though. "Does it really matter?"

Taeyong smiles at him. "Good answer."

After a while the tunnel suddenly dips, and Doyoung grows increasingly anxious at the thought of being buried in his will in an unmarked grave. It's really fucking steep, hardly a step above an incline he'd have no choice but to slide down. "Who the fuck digs a tunnel like this?"

"I'm told the vampires of yore simply followed along the rabbit tunnels," Taeyong tells him, and he guesses that's fair, but definitely not for them at this point in time.

They make it down without issue. The air grows impossibly staler, years and years of old stone and dust settling heavy on his lungs with every breath he takes. Taeyong's pace is relentless though, so he doesn't have time to stop and recollect himself—and maybe it's for the best that he doesn't have time to stop and think about where he is right now.

Deeper and deeper they go underground until the earth finally levels out again, and at this point they've been walking for so long that Doyoung's feet are starting to hurt. Their pace has slowed though, which is nice for a while until Taeyong's hand suddenly shoots out to grab at the wall and he's stumbling, landing on his knees with a hand on his head.

"Woah, hey, what's wrong?" Doyoung is kneeling at his side immediately. Taeyong's hand is fisted in his hair now, eyes squeezed shut in what he thinks is pain.

"Just…" is all Taeyong is able to get out, flinching away when Doyoung tries to touch him. He doesn't know what to do, so he just sits and waits and hopes that whatever he's going through isn't fatal.

And it isn't, thankfully. Eventually the grip on his hair loosens and he reopens his eyes, breaths coming out labored. "Just dizzy," he finally says as his body sags against the stone wall.

"Just dizzy? You're not in pain?" Doyoung is aware that he sounds like a frantic mother right now, but he doesn't care.

"No. No, I'm okay."

"Are you sure? Do you get dizzy often?"

A look comes over his face that Doyoung is hesitant to call shy, but he doesn't know what other name to give it. "No, I'm not supposed to. I just haven't…"

Doyoung waits. Taeyong is looking at him like he wishes she would fill in the blanks himself. When he realizes he can't, "I'm hungry, Doyoung."

"You don't have to be embarrassed about it," he tells him carefully after a moment's pause.

Life flares in his eyes at that, and he squares his shoulders about it. "I'm not embarrassed about it. It's just—I'm not supposed to let it get this bad." He slumps again, evidently still feeling too weak to hold himself up. "I'm supposed to know how to take care of myself at this point."

If Doyoung had a dollar for every time he had told himself that throughout college, he'd be able to pay off his tuition. Hell, he's probably not even taking care of himself now, but either way he understands, and that's why he says the next thing he does. "You can drink from me, if you want."

Taeyong's gaze is carefully blank at the offer, but he doesn't miss the twitch in his jaw where he presumably grinds his teeth. "No." Then he tries to stand, fails, and swears under his breath.

"No? Why?"

"It's—you don't want that, trust me. We can just wait for Yangyang to come find us and help me out of here. Our guy's definitely escaped by this point…"

"Yangyang probably has his hands full right now. Come on, you can hardly even keep your eyes open, you don't need to act tough."

"I'm not fucking acting tough!" he spits, apparently using up the last of his energy to fuel the vitriol in his words. His eyes flutter closed for a few moments while he recollects his breath. "You...I don't think you understand what you're offering, Doyoung."

"Help me understand, then."

Taeyong pulls his knees up to his chest. His claws aren't bared anymore, but somehow the sight hurts more. "It's an intimate gesture," he tells him, clearly picking his words carefully. "More or less, I mean, considering I don't plan to suck you dry. I don't know how else to explain it to you."

Okay. He's uncomfortable. "Does it have to be?" he says softly, feeling a little proud of himself when the fist at Taeyong's side loosens a little. "You look like you're about to pass out, Taeyong. If you need help, I'm willing to give it." Doyoung probably owes him anyway, what with the stitches in his face.

Taeyong is quiet for several moments. "Are you sure?"

It's a space to back out, and Doyoung doesn't see a reason why he should. "Of course."

There's no way he could have predicted the way Taeyong would shove him back against the wall, though, straddling his legs and tilting his chin up gently, neck exposed.

"It's going to hurt at first, okay?" Taeyong says, already tracing a finger against the side of his throat, gentle yet fastidious. He nods, suddenly unable to form words what with the way his heart is racing out of panic. Taeyong wouldn't hurt him. If he wanted to, he definitely would have by now. "Doyoung?"

He knows how to breathe. He's been doing it his whole life. "Yes?"

"Afterwards it'll feel a bit weird too, alright? Just...don't think too hard about it." That really doesn't make him feel any better, and he's certain that Taeyong can see his pulse thudding in his neck right now.

"Okay," he manages to get out. He closes his eyes and counts the seconds until doomsday, until ten of them pass and nothing happens. He quirks an eye open to see Taeyong staring intently.

"You're tensing up," he says. "Seriously. I don't want to hurt you, Doyoung."

He forces himself to relax, and then Taeyong is nosing against the base of his throat, inhaling, and then sinking his teeth in.

It really fucking  _ does _ hurt, and he has to bite his tongue to muffle a pained shout. His hands fly to grip the fabric of Taeyong's mantle. The hand on his shoulder moves to his arm rubbing up and down slowly, so he tries to relax again, only manages it halfway. Taeyong's mouth is warm against his throat, his hair tickling the underside of Doyoung's nose.

_ It's not so bad, _ he realizes, then he wonders at the hazey warmth that starts in his chest and makes his body feel lighter than air. He knows Taeyong is pinning him to the wall at least, so Doyoung lets his head loll against the one pinned to his own neck and just lets the weird high he's on do its thing. He barely acknowledges short puffs of air on his neck, Taeyong laughing, maybe, and actually it feels like the only thing he can really process is Taeyong's body against his, maybe it's the only thing he ever wants to feel ever again. He's so warm, and his lips are so soft; when was the last time he had been this close to someone, anyway? Doyoung wishes his mantle wasn't so thick, so he could feel more of him...

And then Taeyong is pulling away, licking long strips at the base of his throat where there's still blood smeared. The haze is slow to vanish while he catches his breath, the rest of the world returning to him in bits and pieces—the uncomfortable stone against his back, the weird feeling of breathlessness, Taeyong's tongue wiping at the blood stained around his mouth, lips curled ever so slightly in amusement.

"What are you laughing at?" Doyoung asks. His tongue feels heavy.

"You pulled me closer. Noone I've fed from has ever done that before. Usually they just kind of..." He sways his body side to side like a ragdoll as a demonstration, then he giggles. Actually fucking  _ giggles. _ It definitely contributes to the way the world is still swimming around him, even as Taeyong climbs off of him. "Thank you. I feel a lot better now."

"You're scaring me."

Then Taeyong giggles again. Doyoung decides it's a horrible sound. "I'm sorry. It kind of feels like being high for you, right? Not a lot of humans realize it's the same for us, too."

"Oh." is all Doyoung can say in response to that. Taeyong waits patiently with a small smile on his face, staring at the ground while Doyoung's brain resumes proper function.

"Alright, let's go," he says, standing. His legs are only a little wobbly. "Do you think Yangyang caught up to the other one?"

"I have no idea," Taeyong sing-songs. He's practically vomiting rainbows and kittens and Doyoung sort of wants to kill himself about it.

Both of them seem to have returned to sobriety by the time they return to the convening point of the tunnels, thankfully, at the very same time Yangyang is returning dragging a body through the coarse dirt.

"You've been busy," Taeyong greets. Yangyang lets the upper half of the body he'd been supporting fall to the ground with an exhausted huff, and Taeyong is immediately at his side checking for a pulse. His hands are tied into makeshift handcuffs using the shoelaces from both of his boots. "He's alive."

"He put up a fight," Yangyang pants, finally giving in and collapsing dramatically onto the ground. It's then Doyoung notices the long gash across the body's face, cutting through his eyebrow and over the bridge of his nose. It's the same face he had seen in the bar, now bloodied and scarred. Yangyang then sits up suddenly, pulling out a small slip of crushed paper from the inner pocket of his coat. "I got this off of him, though. "

He and Taeyong come closer to inspect it. It looks like some kind of ticket, written in sprawling black ink just like the kind from Johnny's wedding invitation—and man, does that feel like forever ago already. Doyoung can't really make out most of the writing, but he recognizes the letters RSVP along with some Chinese characters he doesn't know how to read.

"Li Yong Qin," Yangyang says, reading his thoughts. "Fake identity, probably."

"It's a ticket to an orchestra concert," says Taeyong. "I recognize the company name. Jaehyun hired them for my birthday, once."

Behind them, the body—Yong Qin, he supposes—stirs. When he realizes his hands are tied, he grunts. "Ah, shit." Then he sees the three strangers standing in front of him. "Ah, shit." He looks as unimpressed as a person can look, rolling unfocused eyes and flopping back down to the ground like he was still unconscious. "Alright, get on with it. What do you want."

Taeyong drags him to sit up against the stone wall, then squats beside him. Doyoung and Yangyang watch on in awe as they have some kind of staring contest for dominance. They don't know who wins when Taeyong finally breaks the silence, "Do you know who I am?"

Yong Qin blinks, his expression so painfully bored that Doyoung almost wishes Yangyang would say something weird to break it. "No."

"My name is Lee Taeyong. And yours is Li Yong Qin, right?" He waves the ticket in the air pointedly, and Yong Qin cringes.

"Christ, please don't call me that. I'll tell you anything if you never use that name again."

Taeyong glances back at them. Yangyang shrugs. "Okay, what do you want to be called?"

"Ten is fine."

A beat. "Like the number?"

"' _ Like the number?' _ " Ten mocks. "Yes, like the damn number. Now are you gonna interrogate me or not?"

"Fine," says Taeyong, dropping all friendly pretence. "Why did you kill Kun? You better tell the truth, otherwise—"

"Otherwise what, gonna sic daddy on me, in all his royal glory?" Ten burlesques. Then he gasps, mouth hung open in feigned shock, "Oh, I'm  _ sorry, _ Luhan's  _ dead, _ isn't he? And so is Qian Kun, no?" He continues after Taeyong's shocked silence, clicking his teeth in disappointment. "It's a real shame, those two, assassinated under their own—"

He's cut off when Taeyong delivers a sucker punch straight to his jaw, strong enough to echo through the cavern and down the tunnels. Ten keeps his head twisted to the side when he spits out blood; a polite gesture considering the proximity between his face and Taeyong's.

"Answer the fucking question," Taeyong demands.

"I didn't kill Qian Kun," Ten tells him, and this time he's being serious. "I was there, but I'm not the guy you're looking for."

"It was the other one, then? Where did he go?"

"I don't know. When we split, we split. Our group isn't one of those close knit gangs your people like to hire for trivial aristocratic bullcrap. We're not  _ friends." _ There's a long pause after that where Taeyong tries to puzzle out whether or not he's telling the truth.

"I don't think he's lying," Yangyang steps in. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but he's not one of us. He's human. They don't play The Game like we do."

Ten gives a toothy grin in response, revealing his lack of fangs. Doyoung brings a hand up to the base of his throat self-consciously.

"Is that it, then?" Taeyong asks. "Are you and your people human?"

Ten's answer is silence. Taeyong stands to draw his machete from its sheath, and the silence grows louder. Then he seems to remember something. "What happened to Johnny Suh after the chandelier fell?"

Ten doesn't blink. "I don't know who Johnny Suh is."

"Try again."

"Fuck you."

Taeyong kicks him in the side so he falls to the stone with a grunt and readies the dark blade just over his head. Doyoung's heart lurches violently.

"Wait, Taeyong," he steps forward, putting a placating hand on his armed hand. "How do we know he isn't lying?"

"We don't," Taeyong deadpans, but he lowers his arm anyway. "I don't know if he's the one who killed Qian Kun, and I don't know if he knows what happened to Johnny or not. But the worst part, Doyoung, is that I'm not a torturer, nor am I a lie detector. I'd rather not take my chances." He raises the blade again—

"Taeyong, don't," says Yangyang, stepping in between him and Ten. "The Game is merciless, but it isn't cruel. You want revenge for Qian Kun's death, right? Would he want a sea of blood in his name?"

Taeyong's conviction visibly fumbles at that, and Doyoung takes advantage of it. "You promised you would help me find Johnny, Taeyong. Please."

Taeyong opens his mouth to say something, but words don't get the chance to come out before Yangyang falls to the ground with a shout and Ten is stumbling to the far side of the cavern, biting at the ends of the shoelaces around his wrists. They're off by the time Taeyong gets to him, just barely ducking under the swing of his machete—the stone is more fragile than it looks, apparently, because part of it crumbles in and around the dark metal, lodging itself in the wall while Ten's footsteps are already disappearing down one of the tunnels.

Doyoung hares after him without a second thought, Johnny's whereabouts slipping from his grasp. He doesn't realize what tunnel he's going down until the earth beneath his feet suddenly lurches downward and he loses his balance, his momentum resulting in gravity throwing him downward to land heavy on harsh stone. He digs blunt nails into the dirt to stop the slide of stone on his exposed arms, but he lands on level ground with bloodied hands and arms anyway. He's winded when he tries to stand, and the pain that flares in his ankle tells him that that's not the greatest idea.

There's a gust of wind when Taeyong bolts past him, and moments later the sharp clang of metal against rock can be heard in the distance. Shortly after Yangyang comes sliding down after him, skidding to a halt when he sees Doyoung's crumpled form. He doesn't bother hiding the tears burning his eyes, Yangyang's gaze immediately latching on to the way he's holding his leg.

"Shit, I thought I heard someone fall," he says, kneeling beside him to fold up the legs of his pants. It isn't swollen yet, but a deep purplish-red is already starting to rise to the surface of his skin. "I suppose you've tried to walk already? It looks like just a sprain."

"I don't think I'm going to be able to get back up that hill," Doyoung says through his tears. "Jesus fuck this hurts, oh my god."

"Taeyong's probably long gone by now, huh?" Yangyang casts a somber look down the tunnel and clicks his tongue. "I suppose we'd better wait for him to help."

The pain doesn't get easier to bear as time goes on, but Yangyang seems to sense how little Doyoung wants to be alone right now. Taeyong's return is preceded by the telltale sound of metal dragging against rock, and sure enough he appears with a grim expression on his face, his machete lagging sadly on the ground behind him. Doyoung doesn't understand the sharp relief at seeing him, even if he looks like he wants to light something on fire, and he doesn't try to.

Yangyang looks him up and down. "There's no blood on you." he observes. Taeyong sheathes his blade.

"He's fast." Then he notices the bruises around Doyoung's ankle. Apparently it's not something he particularly cares about, though. "You didn't let me kill him." He says it so tonelessly, lacking any hint of a threat or accusation, that Doyoung almost doesn't know how to respond.

Thankfully he doesn't have to, though, because Yangyang senses the need for diplomacy immediately. "Taeyong, can't we argue about this later? Doyoung is hurt, and Jaehyun isn't going to be happy if he finds out you two killed each other before I could fulfill my end of the bargain."

It's a selfish motive, but it's better than nothing. Taeyong just fixes him with a blank expression, and Doyoung is impressed at how there is truly nothing roiling behind those dark eyes of his, the only hint of his inner turmoil appearing in the form of a muscle twitching at the side of his jaw. He relents wordlessly, sliding an arm around Doyoung's back and helping him stand.

It's a long and painful journey to the other end of the tunnel, and the tense silence between the three of them doesn't help. It's only broken once by Yangyang just as the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel had appeared.

"It wasn't what you wanted, Taeyong."

If Taeyong hears him, he doesn't acknowledge it.

It takes five minutes of awkward cohabitation back in their hotel room for Yangyang to announce that he's leaving to buy snacks at the convenience store. After that it's just himself and Taeyong, who's holed himself up in his room. If there are any wounds to be licked, Doyoung assumes they're centered around his pride.

He's exhausted, but there's something about being miles underground surrounded by old dirt and death that draws him to the outside balcony. The view of the city isn't the best—in fact it's mostly the backsides of corporate buildings with the din of nearby traffic rising up from below—but it's fresh air, and he needs it. The chair he's in is comfortable enough, anyway, and it's enough to convince himself that he definitely isn't avoiding Taeyong's ire. He's a big boy, and he knows when to confront people. It's just...just. Too much to think about and more than he realized he had signed up for.

Contrary to any lies he's telling himself, his immediate reaction when the sliding door opens to reveal the man in question is momentary panic followed by its duller but still emotionally taxing cousin, apprehension. He watches as Taeyong drags out a small coffee table and a chair from inside, taking a seat in the latter and gesturing toward the former. "Foot up."

Doyoung complies. His ankle is fully swollen at this point, and Taeyong makes a face as he rolls up the leg of his jeans. He's gentle as he lifts up his foot to wrap the compression tape around the sprain. He hasn't looked up at Doyoung once yet, so he counts down from three in his head.

"Are you still upset with me?"

"No," he answers. "I'm just upset."

Doyoung remembers the strike that had embedded his machete in the stone wall, loud and jarring and aimed to decapitate. You said you wouldn't get involved, Kim Doyoung. What are you doing?

"I'm sorry. I know it's wrong of me to get involved in your affairs, it's just..."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Taeyong pulls the tape harshly and ignores Doyoung's hiss of pain. "And you don't have to apologize, either. I told you I would help you find Johnny, and I will. It was wrong of me to lose my head like that." He looks up at Doyoung finally, the light from inside reflecting inside dark eyes. An inexplicable urge to touch him rises up out of nowhere, and he snuffs it out. "Yangyang was right when he said The Game isn't cruel. Killing him would have been foul play."

Doyoung considers that for a moment. "I wish I understood The Game better. I think I'd understand you better, that way."

"I think it's for the best that you don't. It's less of a game and more of a way of life, honestly. And the better you get at it, the more it wraps around and around your entire life until your last breath is squeezed from your lungs." He lifts a hand from his ankle to mime shooting himself in the head, then smiles at the way Doyoung's eyes widen. "That's the way it usually goes, anyway. I'm sad about Qian Kun's death, but I can't say anyone was really expecting anything different. Assassinations, honor killings, centuries-old familial disputes...that's just the life of a vampire."

That sounds...horribly depressing. He doesn't say it out loud, but he's sure the look on his face tells Taeyong what he's thinking. "Does it really have to be like that?"

Taeyong finishes wrapping up his ankle and sits back in his chair. Only half of his face is illuminated by the light inside, and Doyoung wants to go pull the thin curtains closed—for some reason, he gets the idea that Taeyong would look exceptionally beautiful in low light. "Doyoung, do you know how many humans in the past have thought that same thing? Do you know why humans and vampires live separately, even if your government claims to support the mixing of our societies?"

He's only sat through a billion lessons on it throughout his educational career, but he assumes Taeyong isn't looking for the only answer he knows how to give. "I don't," he answers.

"It's because we have too much pride," Taeyong tells him. "It's not like we don't know that our lives would be significantly more enjoyable without all the cloak and dagger, with the cemeteries of grudges we don't know how to stop digging up. It's just that we don't like humans telling us that, even if it's true. Change has to come from the inside, but as it stands, everybody in the gentry is too caught up in themselves to think about how different things could be."

"You don't sound like you're particularly wrapped up in your own affairs."

Taeyong smiles something bitter. "I'm here chasing down Kun's killer, aren't I?"

"Okay, fair. But there's that saying, you know: be the change you want to see in the world."

Taeyong tilts his head in consideration, and he can see the romantic images of revolution against a broken system raging behind his eyes. Then he starts shaking his head slowly. "No."

"No?"

"It's not my place. I can't decide for all of the vampires in Seoul that their lives are wrong, Doyoung, that my idea of a perfect life is the same as theirs. They have to come to that conclusion themselves." His next question comes out softly, lacking any condescension, "Do you understand?"

Doyoung lets his words sink in for a moment. They make sense, but for some reason the scale on which it's being applied makes it hard to wrap his brain around. If a whole society could have something better, why wouldn't they work towards it? He nods anyway.

"It's okay if you don't. Humans don't usually understand."

Doyoung frowns at that. "I want to understand you, Taeyong."

A wistful look comes across his face and he says nothing. They sit together on the balcony in silence until the sun comes up, at which point Taeyong retreats into his own room wordlessly. His exhaustion is a bit belated, but his eyes fall shut the second his head hits his own pillow.

When he dreams, he dreams of a wide open field of tall grass, the sun positioned at a permanent sunset directly in front of him.

He walks through the pale grass, stumbles, catches himself. There's something ahead—he doesn't know what, but he knows something is supposed to be there. The sun is blinding, but he keeps moving.

"You made it here,"

Donghyuck is behind him when he turns around, smiling brightly even as he's standing in Doyoung's shadow.

"I didn't know I was supposed to be here," Doyoung admits, but he's happy that Donghyuck is happy.

"You made it here," Donghyuck repeats, and something in the air shifts. The air on his arms stand, and suddenly the sun is hot, unbearably so—it's burning his skin, exposing him for all he is.

"You made it." Donghyuck says. His smile doesn't falter while Doyoung's skin burns away. He's paralyzed, eyes locked on the deep brown eyes that are illuminated by a melting red sun.

"You made it."

"You made it."

"You made it."

Doyoung wakes up in a cold sweat, an apology on his lips that he knows won't mean anything to anybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5 song rec: [al riggs - local honey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvVnOWijPj0)
> 
> i opened a [cc!](https://curiouscat.me/sputnikmp3)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the triple upd8 thats actually only one update ^^'

# BUSAN, JAPANESE KOREA, SEPTEMBER 1910

Yuta should have seen it coming. No, scratch that—he had seen it coming, and he had chosen to ignore it, because what else could he do, really? It was only a matter of time before news of rioting reached their young port city. Yuta's father didn't want to talk about it when he had returned home weeks ago, but the Emperor's soldiers loved to gossip above all else. 

_Twenty soldiers hung in Daegu in a village uprising, barracks burned down all across the country, collaborators tied to rocks and thrown overboard—_

Yes, he should have done something, anything. We can't stay here, sister, but where could we go? Who would take us in? We, who dine on fresh rice and fruits that the soldiers take from the poor villagers, we who give what we can to the starving children and pretend they're nonexistent once out of sight, we who have lived here for four years and have hardly made an effort to learn the language—who would help us? 

Behind him, above the stuttered crashing of bracken against bracken, rifles let loose their demonic cry into the night air. There are screams of rage, of pain, of terror, the devil's claws scratching at the ground behind him demanding penance. 

The schoolboys must have known. They must have had their own secrets, their own plans. It's a worthless thought—a gust of wind blows unnaturally warm this early in spring, the thin tendrils of smoke it carries making his eyes water. The schoolboys—why else would they face the social guillotine that was being labeled _chin-il-pa_ , traitor, just to play with him? To let him help on their farms, to work with them in the marketplace? Was he just their toy, something to be tossed aside the moment his presence was no longer worth salvaging? Will their betrayal ever sting them years down the line when they remember the houses they had burned down, only the houses they knew housed the Rising Sun? 

Yuta hadn't heard the screams. He's glad he hadn't. He wonders if they're still screaming now, their black corpses forever petrified in the shape of mouths wide open in panic and disbelief, now until the end of time.

No, at least one of them wasn't—had it been Mother? She and Momoka always looked so similar. Either one of them, he had only seen their hand, then an arm and a face glowing like charcoal reaching out of the back door before collapsing onto the ground, her last breath dissipating into the night air. Then, bare feet crunching on black grass—

"Their boy, he's still in the woods! We need to go after him!"

"Are you mad? He knows those trees better than we do, the dog. It'll be a waste of time."

The overturned tree he's behind croaks ominously, nearly too loud for him to hear the voice again—

"Just burn it all down! If those Japanese dogs want to purge us, then why shouldn't we do the same? Leave no survivors!" 

Yuta didn't get to hear the rowdy cheer after that, because he was already on his feet sprinting through the forest he knew so well—or did he? He thought he had known the villagers well, hadn't he? He had grown up with some of them, watched them learn to walk and talk and get married and recover from their illnesses only for them to set fire to his home in the night; surely the forest, too, seeks vengeance for crimes he did not commit? 

As soon as the thought comes, a thick root springs up from the earth, the devil's claw, snagging on his foot and sending him flying. No, no, of course—nothing is to be trusted, nothing and noone. Another gust of wind, the smoke thicker this time, his own tears blinding. He pulls himself up anyway, stumbles in a direction he hopes is forward and away from the flames of a cruel justice, his trial with no jury. Something warm and wet smears on his eyelids when he wipes his eyes, and it's as trivial a detail as the full moon dappling the forest floor like flashes of mercy he cannot grasp. He runs and runs and runs.

_I'm going to die here. I am going to die in a country that is not my own for crimes I did not commit._

But they were his, weren't they? As long as he called himself Nakamoto, as long as he proudly flew the Rising Sun, as long as he wrote poems of sakuras and helped his mother and sisters sew kimonos and as long as he believed in the Emperor's divine decree, _as long as he was Japanese,_ these crimes were his, and it was upon his person that punishment would be doled out. The people he had befriended don't matter, his thoughts that come in broken Korean and Japanese don't matter. 

And still, Yuta runs—he stumbles, he trips, he picks himself back up. _My family is dead._ He doesn't know where he's going, where he will go. There are no other villages near Busan. _The Koreans killed my family._ But Osaka, dear Osaka wouldn't reject him—would she? How could he get there? What could he do to convince anyone to help him?

Something hard and cold collides with his head and he falls, again, and he doesn't know how much more his hands can take from catching his fall on sharp twigs and uneven dirt. But this time there's no smoke to cloud his vision. And then the devil makes him look up, and the only thing stopping him from screaming is the fact that his lungs are already about to give out; so for a few moments, Yuta is left to stare at the decaying face of a swinging villager staring down at him with empty eye sockets while his heart seizes in his chest, the devil's grip. The feet he had run into are a grayish yellow and bloated while maggots wriggle out of one eye socket—one falls and lands on Yuta's chest, and it's another deathly shock to spur him back into motion, scrambling to his feet on loose dirt that's looking more and more like his final resting place.

If Yuta wanted to plead to any of his Gods, he couldn't. He isn't even sure if he occupies a physical form, every scratch and tug of branches against his skin meaningless when another gust sends sparks flying ahead of him, and just like that his path to salvation is ignited, a ring of fire that calls his name. 

He keeps running. He runs even as the forest green turns to red, as sparks catch on already torn clothes and burn through the expensive fabric he had saved from back home, as the sparks flare and eat through his skin, as dirt turns to sand beneath his feet and the ocean is there, then it's licking his ankles, then around and above and _everywhere_ until Yuta lets his head bob to the surface once more, and it's _silent._

The deep black water pushes and pulls as he trudges back to shore, collapsing just far enough away for the edges of the tide to brush his body. 

He doesn't know how long he lays there for. Light flares behind closed eyelids, and he already watched his home burn down—he can't watch it _twice._ The smell carries in the wind easily enough though, the aroma of nature's fiery decay. Soreness creeps into his limbs every moment that passes. His chest burns, there are burning sensations all along his arms and legs, it hurts to think and it hurts to breathe and it _hurts._ He's hurting inside and out and the world is spinning even though all he can see is dark orange beneath closed eyes. 

He's sharply aware of footsteps approaching in the sand, but he doesn't move. He doesn't hold his breath as he waits for the swing of an axe or the grip of two hands around his ankles to drag him out to sea. 

_This is it. They found me. I'm going to be killed._

"Are you alive?" 

It's too painful to lift his head, but he does open his eyes. Staring back at him is a man he's never seen before, pale skin illuminated by the burning forest behind them. His hair is dark and well-groomed. 

"Ah. So you are. Are you deathly injured?" 

Yuta has to fill his lungs as much as they can before answering, and even then it comes out more like a sigh than anything. "No," The man raises an eyebrow, so he tries again, "I don't know." 

"You're Japanese?" 

They always did tease him about his accent. He wishes now more than ever that he had tried harder to learn the language, to fit in, to be seen as one of their own. Maybe they would have shown mercy. 

Regardless, it's a simple question, but what he hears is _Do you want to live, or do you want to die?_

He nods, because his Father didn't raise a liar. He lets his eyes close again, tries to accept death. Then there's something wedging its way under his chest and he's being hefted up against his will. "Come on. You can stand." 

Yuta can't really feel his legs but his feet are definitely moving, dragging through the coarse sand while the stranger carries half, most of his weight. He's vaguely aware of the whinnying of horses and the familiar leather cover of a carriage; the seats are comfortable though, so he thinks the stranger must be wealthy as well as generous. 

Some of the soreness subsides during the ride, but the burns and the gashes in his arms remain. The stranger is sitting beside him with his back straight and his legs crossed. He's inspecting the sleeve of his dress shirt, and Yuta realizes that he looks oddly put together for someone who had apparently been scouring the beach of Busan in the dark of night. His clothes are an expensive fabric and, more than that, clean. 

"Where are you taking me?" he asks. 

"Somewhere safe," the man answers, and he finally turns to look at him. Yuta can't make out the look in his eyes, but he doesn't feel safe. "How old are you, boy?" 

"Twenty-four. I'm not a boy." 

The stranger just huffs a laugh, and Yuta's ears burn. "What's your name?" 

"Nakamoto Yuta." 

"Well, Nakamoto Yuta, it's a pleasure to meet you." 

He doesn't understand the formality. He doesn't understand anything. 

The ride gets bumpier and bumpier until they come to a stop, and Yuta waits for the stranger to give the okay before stepping out. Hard stone greets him over the uncomfortable sand, cold and harsh. He had lost a shoe in the forest, his heels still sensitive and bleeding. The stranger holds out an arm to hold, and Yuta realizes he hasn't asked his name. Everything feels belated somehow, his mind taking twice as long as it usually should to put two and two together. 

"I was wondering when you would ask," the man says when he does. "Kim Junmyeon, but just Junmyeon is fine." 

He's led to the entrance of a cave just a few feet above sea level, dark water softly lapping at the cliff edge. Yuta doesn't trust it. 

There are oil lamps inside the cave, and people sitting closely together in a circle, their backs hunched with dark cloaks spilling out onto the cold stone floor. They all raise their heads when they enter and there's no way Junmyeon doesn't feel his goosebumps. 

"Who is this?" one of them asks. His voice is deep. Yuta wants to curl in on himself. 

"A survivor," Junmyeon tells him. The strangers make room for them to sit in their circle. "The people of Busan were merciless. They set fire to the forest." And now they're all staring at him with dark, untrusting eyes. _This is the lion's den,_ Yuta thinks, an old American fable rising up from memories of his father's tales of the world, _And I will not be found blameless before Him._

"He's not one of us," a different one says sharply. There are dark bags beneath his eyes and he looks about as harrowed as Yuta feels. "We sent you to scout, Junmyeon, not to bring back scraps. We have enough mouths to feed as it is." 

"He looks like he's about to keel over, too. Just look at those burns—they really weren't playing around, were they?" another comments. "This is really happening, then. The Koreans won't win the war, but they'll struggle. And they'll be mowed down." 

There's a heavy silence after that. They're all looking at the ground again. 

"I'm sorry." Yuta doesn't know where his voice came from, but the words were out before he could think about it. "I'm sorry about what will happen. I'm sorry about what has happened. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. I can't stop it." 

Back to silence. Outside, the crash of the sea against stone rises above the oil lanterns. Maybe he should have drowned. Maybe he should have let himself be burned alive. He has no friends here.

"We may as well get moving. We know now that Chanyeol's predictions were right. Where one uprising begins, others will follow. It's not safe for us here anymore." 

"I agree with Baekhyun. Let the boy come with us; if he lives, he lives. If he doesn't, I don't think anyone will mourn him anyway." 

Their backs are turned to him while they pack up what belongings they have; folded clothing and blankets, old books, waterskins. Everything is tattered and lifeless. Yuta watches them move like a statue, or maybe an angel from above, here but not really here. Junmyeon's hand on his shoulder as he guides him back to the carriage is no comfort. 

The weeks following Busan are hazy. The roads are bumpy and filled with travelers both human and vampire, and the majority of them are grieving; grieving lost family, lost land, their lost country. Yuta keeps his mouth shut when they're out trading or sharing news, not willing to let his accent make him a bigger target. Luckily, Junmyeon senses his apprehension and makes an effort to stay close by, which he appreciates, but he still doesn't understand why. It's weird to live every moment expecting to be thrown to the wolves, muscles always tensed to run or fight back—he wonders if that makes him a wolf, too. 

It's obvious enough that Junmyeon is the only one interested in keeping him alive, anyway, going as far as to trade what little possessions he has left for ointment and bandages for his burns, as well as food. Their first stop had been a smaller passerby village at a crossroads, and Yuta almost wanted to keep going and let his cuts fester just to avoid the weeping that filtered in from all directions constantly, even rising up from the ground and seeping in through his skin, an entire country grieving. They may have looked twice or stared a little too long at their dark clothes or embroidered parasols, but none of them gave them any trouble, too caught up in their own sadness. They wouldn't have even when things were normal. 

It was weird at first when Yuta had first come to Korea. Vampires weren't exactly shunned back in Osaka, but they were hardly openly discussed. They existed somewhere in between, lifetimes spent toeing the line between real and unreal, an invisible society that had to ask permission to simply be. 

There weren't many Japanese families who took after the Emperor's encouragement to settle in Korea. No amount of fertile land or promises of prosperity could evict the one thought that came paired with the nation; vampire lovers. It was weird moving to this new port city to see them baring their fangs in public as they laughed, to see their faces flush pink in joy and in sadness and in anger, an undiscovered humanity that had the world constantly twisting in and all around him like a kaleidoscope. Vampires had always been so far away in Osaka, and they still had been even in Busan, where he traded with and conversed and swooed them as a game, just to see if he could. But at least in Busan they were real, tangible and visible, not just a vague children's monster surrounded by myth and prejudice.

Junmyeon reminds him of the vampires of Busan. He's real, solid, but there's still part of them that Yuta can't grasp, somewhere just out of his line of vision, a carefully crafted and persistent blind spot in his character. Yuta couldn't tell anyone anything about him. He's impossible to pin down, but he certainly _is._

Baekhyun and Jongin feel closer even if they still reject Yuta in their own quiet way. They laugh and tease and poke fun, and they cry and get angry and cut their tongues on their fangs when haggling with merchants. They're just as far away, but still grounding. It's a good feeling, especially when so often he finds his thoughts wandering to burning houses and burning trees and burning hatred. It's dizzying, but they help. 

And Chanyeol—Yuta doesn't quite know what to make of him. He's rattish and twitchy and only ever seems mentally present when it suits him. The most he's heard him talk was when he had been tending to the scrapes and burns on his body at Junmyeon's behest, and even that had just been inane muttering to himself—or sometimes he would sing songs that Yuta heard the school children sing in Busan, a touch of home he's not sure he's allowed to claim. 

Chanyeol was good at what he did, anyway, which included but wasn't limited to bargaining, clothes mending, and medical work, an invaluable resource for their little road trip. Yuta wants to ask where he learned to do all these things, but he doesn't.

He's too afraid to ask questions, but as time goes on he pieces some things together. The Japanese soldiers had driven the vampires out of their covens, or some out of the cities in which they dwelled. Their options were to flee or die, and Junmyeon's party had chosen to flee, although Yuta still wasn't sure where his part came in. Nonetheless, it isn't too difficult to imagine scores of vampires fleeing north or west, away from fighting and rioting and death. He doesn't know where their destination really is, but several names have been tossed around: Pyongyang, Beijing, even a city in Russia whose name was too difficult to remember. Yuta thinks he should be more scared, but he isn't. He wonders if a day, a week, a month is long enough to accept your own death at the hands of another, to weigh the good and the bad against a feather and decide for yourself okay, this is fair, I deserve this. It doesn't take long for Yuta to conclude that it doesn't really matter. Jongin had said it best after all; if he dies, there will be nobody left to mourn him. 

Yuta loses count of how many nights they spend awake and scared, gunfire and shouting and smoke carrying over from miles away reminding them that this is real, that people are dying, this is war and they're going to lose. He doesn't know when he started considering himself 'they', but it feels weird to call himself Japanese now. How could he align himself with the same people who kill and pillage without remorse? If they were his people, why hadn't he fled to any of the Japanese soldiers for help, please, I'm one of you, aren't we supposed to help each other? 

And yet he isn't Korean. He knows by the way Baekhyun still eyes him distrustfully and by the way Jongin still refuses to acknowledge his presence, by the way he feels guilty for wanting to help and guilty for not even attempting to. He wouldn't be surprised if the wind blew him away into nothingness before they find a new home.

There's another small town burning just at the edge of the mountain they're sheltering by, a vivid orange sunrise that's breathing black smoke over a pale moon. Jongin and Chanyeol are sleeping, but the warmth of two other bodies are missing. Yuta had been exempted from vigil duties, Jongin not trusting that he wouldn't cut their throats while they slept. He's not sure what woke him up, but there's apprehension roiling in his gut that he can't shake, so he walks on careful feet to the outside of their little cave where Baekhyun and Junmyeon are staked out. 

"I know I shouldn't hate him, but he's—his people—they're killing us, taking away our home. Our Korea. How can you expect me to share a space with him? What were you even thinking? You said he was half dead when you found him, why couldn't you have just left him there? Why?"

Junmyeon's answer comes out calm, measured. "He's a victim, Baekhyun, just like us. Is it so difficult for you to have some empathy?" 

"His cheeks are full, his hands are soft and his clothes are expensive. He's never toiled a day in his life, yet he feasts on fresh rice while everybody else starves on millet and dirty water. I can't—I just can't." 

Baekhyun sounds like he's close to crying and Yuta wants to die. He's already apologized, but apologies don't fill empty stomachs or bring back dead family. He knows that.

"I feel the same anger as you do, believe me. But I refuse to let myself sink down to their level, vampire or no. He's a boy and he needed help." 

Baekhyun doesn't say anything after that, but Yuta hears the brush of his clothes against stone and a woeful sigh. His heart pangs for the sorrow he knows Baekhyun feels, but he knows there's nothing he can say to him. 

The rest of the night passes in silence, an alarming peacefulness falling over them that makes everything that's transpired feel unreal.

It takes a little over two months to reach Seoul. When they do, the city is primarily occupied by soldiers staring them down with guns trained at them all the while. 

The Japanese are too busy relocating all of the city's residents to harass the vampires passing through, but none of them buy their neutrality. 

Seoul is a drab and broken town. Shattered windows, overturned carriages and looted marketplace stands litter the streets while soldiers bark orders at fleeing civilians. It doesn't take very long for the sight to make the most vulnerable, human part of Yuta shrivel up and cry out for any kind of relief from the despair that permeates the city, so he stares at his hands in his lap and tries to focus on anything else. 

The scars on his hands haven't healed very well. Nervousness has him picking at them constantly, especially when Junmyeon isn't around for him to cling onto. There's a small bit of blood trickling out of the largest cut now, and it makes him feel dizzy to watch. What did it mean for him to have blood thrumming all throughout his body if he was using this life to run away? 

But everybody here is running away, too. He doesn't know what's right or wrong, up or down anymore. 

"I don't want to stay here," Jongin says, tearing him from his thoughts. "Should we go to Beijing after all?" 

"I don't know if they'll let us cross the border," Baekhyun says. "The Japanese move quicker than we do. They'll probably try to corral us into a corner. Maybe exterminate us." 

Jongin lets out a noise of disbelief. "Surely they wouldn't go that far?" 

"I wouldn't put it past them." 

Baekhyun's pessimism isn't helping anybody, but Yuta agrees with him. Jongin nudges him in the side. "You know them better than we do. What do you think?" 

It takes a few moments to formulate an answer, because Yuta doesn't know them. They share his language, his blood, his culture, but he doesn't know them. Right now he just feels so far away from everything. "I think they'll do whatever it takes to assert control." 

"Good answer," Chanyeol approves, though he's not looking at him. Yuta doesn't even know when the last time they made direct eye contact was.

"Luhan should be here anyway," Baekhyun speaks up. "We don't have to stay in Seoul forever. He'll be able to help us find somewhere else to call home." 

And they do find Luhan, along with a gathering of other vampires on the outskirts of the city—Yuta doesn't think he's ever seen so many people in one place. All of them are gathered under makeshift tents or half-demolished buildings tending to each other and doing headcounts. There's less crying here, but the grief is still apparent. 

"It's not fair," a woman is saying agitatedly while others try to comfort her. "We've lived here for decades, centuries longer than they have—how could they just drive us out? Why aren't we organized enough to push back?" 

"We couldn't have predicted it, Joy. It's unfortunate, but we have to work with what we have. You aren't alone in this." 

"Ideally we'll stick together from now on. Right, Luhan?" Junmyeon steps in. Yuta tries not to look too much like a scared child hiding behind him, but he thinks he fails what with the way Luhan's eyes zero in on him and his gaze sharpens. 

"Yes, that. You're finally here. What took you so long?" Luhan greets, still staring at Yuta.

"It's chaos," Chanyeol tells him. "Absolute chaos. We had to take roundabout routes to avoid the fighting, and you know how the terrain gets the farther north you travel." They had passed more than one caravans of refugees with the wheels on their caravans broken or horses that had collapsed and refused to stand again. They did what they could, but they had to keep going. 

Junmyeon nods. "But we're here. And alive." 

"And you have a plus one," Luhan says. "What's your name?" 

Yuta's mouth seems completely detached from his body. He can't speak. He had expected, hoped, that nobody would acknowledge him. Junmyeon squeezes his shoulder. 

"He's Japanese. The villagers in Busan torched his home, drove him out. I found him on the beach." 

"Ah," Luhan says, smiling fondly. "You always did like picking up strays, didn't you?" 

Chanyeol laughs and Junmyeon doesn't respond. Yuta keeps his eyes cast down. 

"Well, either way we're moving out at sunrise," Luhan continues. "The Japanese gave us two weeks to gather ourselves and that grace period ends come morning. We'll keep headed north and see where it gets us." 

"Come morning?" Baekhyun balks. "Luhan, what—"

"Rela-ax Baekhyunnie," Luhan waves a dismissive hand. "We're taking the tunnels. We'll be out of the sun, safe and sound, and I'll make sure to cover our tracks so the humans can't follow us. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Baekhyun's face turns red with anger. "The _tunnels?_ You mean those old mines that collapse if you breathe too loud? Luhan, that's suicide—no, it's mass murder. You'll be leading all these people to their deaths." 

"Ssh!" Luhan hushes, growing agitated himself. "Baekhyun, do you understand what kind of situation I'm in? The kind of situation we're _all_ in? If we're not in China by the end of this month, the Japanese will chase us to the edge of the country to purge us, but they don't know the tunnels like we do. It's dangerous, but it's our safest bet." He steps a little closer then, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper, "These people are trusting me with their lives, their families lives. I don't know if I'm making the right decision, and I'm scared out of my mind, but that matters less than the risk we face loitering around here above ground. Someone has to take action." 

Baekhyun's anger turns to silent tears by the end of his spiel, and he nods his head somberly. "I hate all of this, Luhan. I hate it." 

Luhan pulls him into a hug. Something in Yuta aches at the scene, at how naturally their bodies meld together in the embrace. The world starts to swim around him, so he casts his eyes down again, willing it to stop. "I know, Baekhyunnie. We all do. But all we have is each other, now." 

Junmyeon shuffles Yuta away from where Baekhyun is crying into his shoulder. 

"Junmyeon," Yuta chances, voice weak, "Am I the only human here?" 

"It's likely," he answers, then seems to read Yuta's mind. "They won't harm you, I promise. Just stay by me if you're nervous, alright?" 

Junmyeon is still hardly any comfort even after all this time, but he's all he has. 

Yuta nods.

The tunnel entrance is about a mile away from the city, tucked in between a large boulder and the base of a rust colored hill at the beginning of a mountain range. As promised, once they're all inside, a sea of torches rising from dark cloth, Luhan sets off a load of cheap dynamite at the entrance, collapsing the tunnel entrance and effectively sealing them in. Yuta thinks he's going to be sick, but Luhan has a cold confidence about him that keeps his head up—and Junmyeon's grip on his wrist doesn't leave for the majority of their migration.

Of course, a lot of people die. They die of exhaustion, grief, from wounds sustained on their expedition to Seoul. The wailing is unbearable, echoing back and forth throughout the caverns in an endless cycle of pain and mourning. The stone is too hard to dig graves, so the bodies are left to decay in the dark for the foreseeable future. Sometimes the family members of the deceased choose to stay with them, and Luhan lets them mourn in peace. 

Days pass while they walk. Junmyeon's pocket watch tells him so. Yuta's entire body is aching, and he can tell everyone else's is, too. They don't stop, though, so he doesn't either. He tries to keep his mind on Osaka, on home, but strangely it doesn't bring nearly the same amount of comfort as it did back in Busan. 

How long ago had that been, anyway? Where are those same villagers? The soldiers posted there? Waa there a single Rising Sun left flying there at this point?

No, probably not. It's probably for the best. Though the tunnel was wide enough to accommodate a fair amount of them shoulder to shoulder at the beginning, the farther they walk the more cramped it becomes as the earth dips lower and lower into a musky abyss that Yuta can hardly imagine emerging from. 

At some point his mind leaves behind Busan and his family and fixates on Luhan. From what he can piece together, he seems to be the de facto leader of this whole migration. He tends to the wounded, comforts the fledglings, bears the angry outbursts from those who believe he's leading them to their deaths. He takes all of it in stride, and not once does Yuta catch a single slip in his confidence. Whether or not it's a farce, he doesn't know. Junmyeon has absolute faith in Luhan as far as he can tell though, and that's enough to calm Yuta's nerves—t least enough to keep putting one aching foot in front of the other

By the time stale air turns fresh and natural light starts pouring into the tunnel, their caravan is noticeably thinner. Selfishly, he doesn't look back at those who fell or chose to stay. He doesn't have the heart to pray for them, to make an effort to keep them in his thoughts. 

He's seen enough death for a lifetime.

# BEIJING, CHINA, DECEMBER 1910

When they make it to the Manchurian border, what's left of the group splits. Most of them follow Luhan west towards Beijing, while others continue still north towards the Russian border and beyond. Junmyeon, unsurprisingly, chose to follow Luhan. 

Travelling in Chinese territory was much, much less perilous than in Korea, however now Yuta was several steps outside of his comfort zone as opposed to just one. There were only a handful of vampires in their cohort that could speak Mandarin, and although Luhan was one of them, it still left everybody else fumbling for guidance as far as trading and bartering goes, and Yuta was left twice removed from any language he could speak well enough to fit in.

Still, they were safer here, and that's what mattered. 

The coven in Beijing is more than welcoming after hearing about their plight, and Yuta is unsurprised to find that they were sympathetic to their anti-Japanese sentiment. It's not like he really has to speak anyway, though, so he's left alone for the most part. The natives of the Beijing coven all carry a medallion or badge embellished with lotus flowers, and he thinks about the dark-clothes strangers he'd see sometimes in Osaka, with pieces of gold he once thought were coins dangling from their wrists or necks as an accessory. 

It's several months before they start to feel like they've settled down. But when Yuta thinks about it, 'settled down' is an odd, if not inaccurate, way to describe Beijing. Compared to how subdued he remembers Osaka or how hollow Busan always felt, Beijing offers almost zero chance for repose, for any chance to breathe. It's a city as frenetic as its people, and Yuta learns that even taking a day to himself means throwing himself completely out of the loop of the city's happenings. He can tell that the other Koreans that had journeyed with them feel just as disoriented, thrown into a rushing waterway that was exciting as much as it was dizzying. In this way Yuta feels less alone, and after a while he finds that maybe it's for the best that life in Beijing is as endlessly hectic as it is. He's not sure how he would survive if he had spare time to dwell on Korea, on Japan. 

Spring has started to bleed into summer when Junmyeon asks to go on a walk with him. The streets are only somewhat less populated when the sun has gone down, but it ends up being just the two of them when he leads Yuta to a park that's closed for the night. 

The sky is empty when Junmyeon offers him the vampire's curse. Yuta's first response had been shock, and then fear, and then he just felt silly. Of course that's where this relationship would lead, as if a human could live among vampires for the rest of his life. He wonders if this is what Junmyeon had planned from the beginning, if all of this was just some elaborate plan to carry on his bloodline. The thought makes him physically ill. 

But he accepts, because he's been following Junmyeon for long enough already, and he doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't know what else to do. Junmyeon has been kind enough to him. 

Maybe he owes him this much. 

The next few years in Beijing are spent learning yet another language, primarily by way of Luhan translating newspapers to him over dinners and Yuta spending ample time in the store of a local shopkeep toying with his radio all day long. He learns the Chinese words for military terms and the surrounding countries, memorizes the Chinese characters for them, draws them into his pillow until he can't hold his eyes open any longer. It's surreal watching your country fall apart from the outside, but Yuta doesn't have any other choice—or if he does, he pretends he doesn't. Either way, Beijing is too chaotic, too vibrant for his mind to dwell on hurts.

It's not the best place to heal, but he tries to be grateful for the opportunity.

# ULAN-UDE, THE SOVIET UNION, 1928

When China dissolves into civil war, they move again. They're far more prepared than they had been in Korea all that time ago, but it doesn't hurt any less. Yuta had watched their politics grow ever more complex and the citizens of Beijing grow increasingly restless with their government up close, and it was difficult to separate himself from it when the words _Japan_ and _revolution_ and _Communist powers_ were buzzing around in the air everywhere he went. Yuta wanted nothing more than to get involved, to fight for a cause he believed in, because maybe then some of the burden would be relieved from his chest. Junmyeon was adamant about him staying out of it, however, and when fighting finally exploded in the city, they were already on the road north once more. 

Ulan-Ude is the first town they make it to once they cross the Mongolian border, and that's where they settle. By now, Yuta can't remember the last time he's spoken Japanese to anybody, but he tries not to dwell on it even if it causes a foreign guilt to bubble up in his chest and threaten to choke him to death. No, he just listens to what Junmyeon tells him to do, because Yuta knows that he can't trust himself to make good decisions.

The town is sparsely inhabited, but the rumors about Russia being one of the most liberal countries regarding vampires holds true. They offer to teach them the language, give them tours of the land, tell them where they should or shouldn't go, what they should or shouldn't say. As the weeks go on, Yuta finds that the unusual muted quality of Ulan-Ude isn't merely a result of the discomfort that comes with being displaced; no, the snow falls heavy here, and heavy is the fogginess that permeates every shop, every alley, even the shadows of trees from the surrounding woodland. Ulan-Ude feels like a town that only really exists on the edges, and these qualities seep in through Yuta's heavy parka and make his own thoughts and feelings feel just as intangible as the strangers he meets. 

It's home for now. Yuta decides there isn't very much reason to think beyond that. 

# ???, SIBERIA, 1942

When news reaches them about Japan's attack on an American naval base, Yuta tells Junmyeon he's going to collect more firewood, and he walks and walks and walks until he doesn't know where he is and the snow rises up to his knees to cry and scream and weep for the country that is no longer his. 

# YAKUTSK, THE SOVIET UNION, 1953

Baekhyun takes an obnoxiously loud seat beside him where he's working in the library, old wood scratching on old stone. 

"Did you know they split Korea into two?" he asks, disproportionately casual considering the subject matter. Yuta doesn't care. 

"I don't care." 

Yuta doesn't have to look up to know that Baekhyun is pouting. "You become more and more like Junmyeon every day, you know." 

He pokes Yuta in the side when he doesn't respond, so he sets down his pen as calmly as possible and turns to him. "What do you want, Baekhyun?" 

"Do you really not care about Korea?" he asks, serious this time, maybe even hurt by Yuta's indifference. "Don't you want to go home?" 

There are so, so many things Yuta can say in response to that, including but not limited to: No, I don't or Korea hasn't been my home in over forty years or Fuck off, Baekhyun. 

What comes out, though, is a heavy sigh, because Junmyeon told him to play nice. "I don't know where I want to be, Baekhyun. Right now I'm here in the middle of fuck-all, Russia, still practicing Korean grammar by translating fifty year-old Russian books because I have absolutely nothing better to do and it's the only language I can bother to keep up with. I don't know where I'm going to be in five years let alone three months from now and thinking about it stresses me out so I'm not doing it and I don't want to. Is that enough for you?" 

Baekhyun nods solemnly with his lips pulled inward and his fingers laced together on the table in feigned contemplation. "Your life kinda sucks, dude." 

Yuta picks up his pen again. "Tell me about it." 

"But hey, I was serious, you know?" Baekhyun continues, reaching out to put a hand over Yuta's. "Our lives are long. You're just barely reaching the end of your human lifespan and you're already angry and jaded about everything. Isn't there anything you're looking forward to?" Yuta doesn't have an answer, so he continues. "You never know when things down south might stabilize. You don't have to give up hope that things will get better. You know I hate seeing you moping around all the time with that frown on your face." 

"I don't mope." Yuta says, and Baekhyun scoffs. 

"Okay, if sitting in a poorly lit library doing boring nerd stuff to escape your inner turmoil isn't moping, I don't know what is." 

Yuta grips the edge of the table and gives a hard kick to Baekhyun's chair, sending him toppling over with a shout. He's smiling when he finally gets back up, but Yuta is already sprinting down the staircase laughing to find Jongin and enlist him in the ensuing war.

Junmyeon finds him later face-down in the snow just outside of their domicile, gently nudging him in the side with his foot to let him know he's there. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Dying," Yuta answers, and the words come out unintelligible even to his ears through the snow. 

"What?" 

"Baekhyun challenged me to a snowball fight," says Yuta, lifting his head miserably. 

"Did you win?" 

"No. I got my ass kicked."

Junmyeon hums. "And Jongin too, I suppose?" 

"Yup."

Then Junmyeon clicks his tongue, and to this day Yuta still can't tell if that's supposed to express genuine disappointment or not. He smiles when Yuta smiles though, and that's good enough. Yuta takes his hand to stand when it's offered, and Junmyeon praises him when he inspects what work he's done in translating Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. It's a high he rides for the rest of the day, and maybe even a little bit after that. 

Only a little bit, though. As usual, his own anger returns to blanket every other feeling, muffling them into nothingness. 

It's lonely here. Beautiful, yes, and peaceful, but it feels like the perfect death he hasn't deserved yet. Yuta spends most of his time reading or drawing or walking out into the woods in the hopes of finding something, anything to cure his restlessness. 

Yuta always considered himself a bit of a restless soul, but after Chanyeol left, it became unbearable. He had been communicating back and forth with someone back in Beijing for some time before he had announced that he was leaving, even amidst the political unrest and the endless death. Yuta had come across a lot of books with the first and last pages torn out, the only blank vellum they could get their hands on when the winter snowfall was violent and unrelenting. He had thought Chanyeol was using them for diary entries initially, but he does come across an unfinished one addressed to a Chinese name he doesn't recognize.

The letter had been filled with too much scientific jargon for him to decipher, and it didn't interest him. From what he could understand from Chanyeol's explanation though, there were some medical breakthroughs happening in an underground coven back in China that he was itching to be a part of, and he didn't ask for anyone's permission to leave as much as he simply announced that he was going regardless of if they followed him or not. 

Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, his envy of Chanyeol's departure often kept him up at night. Yuta wanted nothing more than to go, to see all that the world has to offer, even if it's dangerous, even if all that makes him who he is is rejected by his peers. He's not sure how much longer he can bear living this life in Yakutsk—part of him feels bad for wanting no part in this freezing Eden, but it's miniscule compared to the ache for adventure, for emancipation deep in his heart. 

He clings onto that envy until it manifests into anger. It's a quiet kind, much in the way the sun slowly becomes uncomfortable if you lay outside for too long, and Yuta does a good job at keeping it under wraps. Still though, it eats him up inside, anger that this is his life now, that he doesn't have the courage to abandon Junmyeon, that even with all the love and laughter he has with this family, he isn't satisfied. 

Some days, the anger isn't directed at anyone in particular. Other days he isn't sure what's stopping him from cutting Junmyeon's throat while he sleeps, severing the invisible rope that's keeping him tied down like this. On the in-between days, all he can ever think about is asking Junmyeon why he gave him this half-life, why he didn't just let him die back in Busan, why was he here if all he was enduring is constant grief for a life poorly lived, as if any answer from him would free Yuta from his own inner turmoil.

But he doesn't. He reads the same books over and over until he can't bear to see their covers anymore, and wanders to the nearest town to steal more from the small libraries that are there. He lets Baekhyun talk his ear off or annoy him into snowball fights, and he sits and watches Jongin bake with the soft dough he barters for on the rare occasions travelling merchants come by their little domicile. 

He's not afraid to admit to himself that he's grown attached to Baekhyun and Jongin, who no longer share their initial prejudices about his roots. They treat him like family, and he returns it, if only to convince himself that he has a reason not to run away from the people who took him in all those years ago. Keeping them company in this cold wasteland is the least he can do. 

It's a half-life, but Yuta bears it, because he's lucky he still has a life at all. 

Junmyeon changes. 

Much like the proverb about the frog in boiling water, Yuta doesn't realize it for the longest time. Just after Junmyeon had turned him back in Beijing, he had grown exceptionally warmer towards him. He bought him clothes and food, introduced him formally to Luhan and his other friends, told him about his life and the world around him—little stories and lessons that Yuta would never have gotten from his own father. Anecdotes that could only come from the life of a vampire. 

Gradually it had become easier for Yuta to open up to him too, to smile and laugh when he does, not to flinch away from his or other people's embrace. Years and years like that form a bond that, back then, Yuta couldn't imagine ever breaking.

The first thing that tips him off is the realization that, over the past few months, Yuta has hardly seen him. It's only ever Baekhyun that drags him out to random forest excursions out of boredom, only ever Jongin that sits with him quietly in the study when he knows Yuta wants company but doesn't know how to ask for it. 

Jongin and Baekhyun are nice to be around, but they're not Junmyeon. Yuta doesn't even know how to explain it himself. Being with Junmyeon just feels more whole, more right. 

Today is the third day he's gone without seeing him. He doesn't know if Junmyeon is just avoiding him, but if he were sick, Jongin or Baekhyun would have let him know. There's no other way to find out without confronting the problem though, so he sets his pen neatly on top of his journal and stands. 

There isn't a lot of flora that can survive the winters, or even the summers here in Russia, but unbeknownst to them Junmyeon had anticipated that before they started their trek here, bringing along with him some of the more weather-resistant flower seeds from Beijing. They had only begun to poke out through the snow recently, and Junmyeon was more or less enamored with them. Yuta could understand the beauty in life blossoming in their empty wasteland, so he tried not to bother him when he knew he was tending to them.

He doesn't feel bad about approaching him today, though. He doesn't look up when Yuta comes to stand where he's kneeling in the icy dirt. 

"Hyung," Yuta says. 

"Yes?"

"I haven't seen you in forever." 

Junmyeon brushes the dirt from his hands and rises from his kneel. "I didn't realize you still needed to follow me around like a child, Yuta," he says, and then he's gone. Yuta doesn't bother following him, standing and staring in shock. 

He tries again and again over the next month, and the result is always the same. Junmyeon's cold shoulder cuts into him like a knife, and he can't make any headway between his own confusion and heartbreak. 

The snow is almost always falling in Yakutsk, even if its just a light, barely-there array of snowflakes falling from above. They still melt when they touch his face, artificial teardrops that are cold enough for him to forget his pain.

# YAKUTSK, THE SOVIET UNION, 1979

The moon is full when Yuta hears the telltale sound of a draft horse slogging through snow, and sure enough a courier is trudging his way up to their home looking about two steps away from collapsing into the earth. Normally Baekhyun is the first to greet visitors, but he and the others are out hunting game and collecting firewood. He rushes out to greet the stranger, opening the door to see his hand poised to knock. 

"Um," he says. 

"Mail?" Yuta suggests, and a confused expression crosses the courier's face before Yuta realizes he's using the wrong language. "Is it mail?" he tries again in Russian, and the courier nods before frantically sifting through his tattered satchel and proferring an equally tattered envelope. Yuta takes it between his index finger and thumb, raising an eyebrow. 

"Why is it so messed up?" 

"I—I'm sorry," the courier stutters. He looks like he's about to pass out. "It took a long time to get here, and the instructions were unclear, and—"

"Why are you so nervous?" Yuta cuts him off, stifling a laugh. It's weird to say, but it's been a long time since he's seen someone actually _nervous._ He's fascinated by the boy's wide eyes and tense posture. The courier freezes for a few moments before his next words come tumbling out;

"Are you really a vampire?" he asks, and suddenly it appears to Yuta that the courier is young indeed, probably not a day over twenty at most. He wonders who would have sent such a neurotic boy into the snow filled void that was Siberia, but a quick glance at the envelope answers his question. 

_Luhan._

"I am," Yuta answers carefully, "And so are the others who live here. Why?" 

"Oh, I—it's just, there are rumors about you guys. They said vampires had taken up home in the abandoned stead down the river, and, well, I didn't believe Luhan would send me to my death, but here I am—here you are, I mean—" 

"What, you think I'm gonna suck all the blood out of you and throw your corpse in the forest to rot?" Yuta means it as a joke, but evidently it doesn't come across that way as the boy visibly blanches. "Okay, I'm sorry, I was just kidding. We're normal people, you know." 

The courier nods, then for a few moments they just sort of stare at each other awkwardly. 

"Do you want to come inside?" Yuta offers. He shakes his head frantically, and then he's walking backwards and tripping into the snow. 

"I'm fine, thank you, I'll just be on my way now," he's saying, and then he's climbing onto his horse in a clumsy panic and scampering off into the snow. 

_Well, he'll have a story to tell his friends at least,_ Yuta thinks. He waits until Junmyeon returns before opening the letter, a silent two and a half days, and he ignores Baekhyun's side-eye when he tells him this. 

" _'To Kim Junmyeon And Company,'_ " Junmyeon reads aloud, " _'Isn't that overly formal? It's been a while, but you're always going to be like a lame loser brother to me, lololol.'_ " Junmyeon stops reading to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose while Chanyeol and the others laugh. Baekhyun snatches the letter from him and continues, " _'Anyway, I'm sure you've heard about what's happened to Korea by now. From what I've heard it's actually semi-bearable now. Things haven't been nearly as functional here, but we make the most of it. Still, the people here of my house—that's what they're calling it now, houses instead of covens—they're talking about returning to Korea, returning to their old homes. The Americans kicked out Japan, right? We'll be accepted back there, now. It'll be just like the good ol' days._

__

__

Just kidding. I know how delusional that all sounds. But I'd be lying if I said their hope wasn't infectious, and at the time of writing this, it's an idea that doesn't sound all that bad. A lot of the people here still speak Korean, they still wear hanboks and practice the old ways. They want their homes back, and sooner or later they'll petition me to give it back to them. 

If you've read this far and you're wondering where you come into play in all of this, consider it a formal invitation to our migration back to Korea. The people really trusted your leadership during our exile all those years ago, you know, just as much as they trusted mine. I know you'll never believe me, but it's true. They talk about you like you're some kind of deity—which is stupid, because we all know I'm better than you at everything, but I digress. The offer is there to do with what you will.

_I miss you, you know, and your friends, too. So does Chanyeol. Come rebuild our bridge with me.'_ " 

The silence after that is contemplative, calm. Yuta watches Junmyeon's expression to see what he thinks before coming to a conclusion himself—but he is, of course, as impossible to read as ever. He doesn't know why he tried. 

"I miss Chanyeol," Baekhyun finally says. Yuta can resonate with that, at least. Chanyeol was eccentric but kind in his own way. It hasn't been the same without him.

"I don't know what you guys want to do, but if Luhan is going back to Korea, there's no way I'm not going with him." Jongin declares. Then they turn to Yuta. 

Of course, he already has his go-to response in mind: I'll go where Junmyeon goes. But something about Baekhyun's honesty and Jongin's conviction has something else falling from his lips, a desire he doesn't even process until it's finally out in the open. 

"I want to see Busan again." 

And then Junmyeon looks around at the three of them, the people who have helped each other through hell and high water, and comes to a decision far quicker than Yuta thought he would.

"Okay. Let's go home." 

# SEOUL, REPUBLIC OF KOREA, 1990

Yuta thanks the waiter walking around the manor with a tray of wine glasses with a nod before returning to the crowd. He's never particularly enjoyed these events, which he considered nothing more than a chance for different houses to flaunt their wealth and pretend to like each other. But then again, Yuta supposes that's exactly what he's doing, too. 

Really, he's surprised at how well Junmyeon slotted in with the aristocracy that Luhan had cultivated in Beijing, like he had spent the past few decades clothed in expensive fabric and sipping wine instead of trudging through three feet of snow to collect firewood every other morning. He seems genuinely happy to be back with Luhan, though. They're laughing together at one of the punch tables, a small crowd surrounding them as if they'll get clout just by being in their general vicinity. He supposes they are, in a way, The Game's imaginary point system a constant game of social tug-of-war. 

The chateau's chandeliers—Luhan's pride and joy of commissioned craftsmanship—twinkle above him, and for the nth time that night, Yuta's mind wanders off as he stares at the impossible collection of crystals that make up the light fixture. They add a magical quality to the whole scene, everything around him feeling equal parts real and unreal, details of the room's architecture or passing gossip only existing for the split moment they have Yuta's attention. He's lost in thought as he usually is. He wonders if he's always felt this way. 

"Hi there," rumbles a deep voice from beside him. Shocked out of his reverie, they both ignore his jolt of surprise, and Yuta finds he doesn't recognize the stranger. 

"Hello," he says. "I'm sorry, I don't…" 

"Jung Jaehyun," the stranger introduces himself. His smile is warm and welcoming. "One of Luhan's advisors. It's a pleasure." 

"Nakamoto Yuta," he greets. "I'm sorry, I probably should have known who you were." 

Jaehyun waves a hand, flippant. "It's no matter. Honestly, I've waited a long time to talk with you."

"Oh?"

"You were the last to reach Seoul, during the occupation. You arrived with Junmyeon and Jongin and two others. You looked half dead." 

Yuta stares at him blankly for several long moments before he realizes what Jaehyun is referring to. "You remember more from that year than I do, evidently." 

"That's not the first time I've heard that," Jaehyun shrugs. His smile isn't as wide now, but he has his full attention on Yuta, a vice grip with zero intention of letting him go. It's not as off putting as he thinks it should be. "I remember you, though. You followed Junmyeon around like a kid, and you always had your head down. I don't think very many people realized you weren't one of us back then." 

"But you did?" Yuta extrapolates. He isn't sure where Jaehyun is going with this, and his guard is up.

"I did. I never did figure out why you caught my attention, but I don't suppose you always have to have a reason to be interested in someone."

Yuta doesn't like where he thinks this is going, but he'll bite—if only for the sake of appearances and all. "Why didn't you ever approach me in Beijing if you were interested?" 

"I was part of the group that kept going north once we reached the border. Actually, this is as far south as I've been in a long time." 

"Ever stop by Yakutsk?" 

Jaehyun shakes his head. "Heard plenty of talk of it though, from the workers and some of the covens up there. Vampires inhabiting an old home lost in the snow. I don't suppose that was you?"

"Guilty." 

"Figured." 

They lull into quiet after that, and Yuta finds that it isn't uncomfortable. Regardless of whether or not it's a facade, Jaehyun has an aura about him that projects comfort, dare he even say safety. He wonders why it's taken them so long to meet. 

"It's a strange life, isn't it?" Jaehyun continues, and Yuta tilts his head slightly, a question. "To think nearly a hundred years ago, the most we ever had on our minds was whether or not our crops were going to flourish that season, or when our siblings were going to be married off. And now look at us," he gestures at the confluence of people mingling in the ballroom, everything shiny and gilded, "Moving up the social ranks into royalty on the cusp of the twenty-first century, pretending we've never lived through war and death and famine. It's mind-boggling, no?" 

It is, absolutely. Considering how secluded their lives were in Russia, the technological advancements that had greeted them in Korea were dizzying. He's been here almost ten years now and it still is. "I suppose that's just part of being a vampire," then Yuta chuckles to himself. "I remember being so shocked when I had first seen a television." 

Jaehyun hums in agreement. "It daunted me when I had been a fledgling, the amount of history I'd be moving through, but I find it comforting nowadays. Knowing that no matter what, we can only ever go forward."

Yuta watches him while he talks and he can tell he's being sincere, all pretence of The Game discarded. "I can tell you missed home." 

"As did you, I imagine." 

Astute. "Yeah," Yuta smiles. "I did. I'm glad to be here." 

"Sorry if that was too sudden. Seeing you just...reminded me of things I hadn't thought about in a long time." 

"No, no, it's okay," Yuta assures, and he finds that he means it. "I'm glad you decided to talk to me after all this time. I think...I think I needed to hear some of that, so thank you." 

Just as he finishes talking they both catch sight of Luhan pointing at Yuta from through the crowd and beckoning him. 

"I suppose we'll meet again some other time?" Jaehyun asks, and Yuta laughs nervously despite himself. He's not used to being flustered. 

"Sure," he says, trying and failing to get a grip on his cool cordiality, "Of course. Until next time, Jung Jaehyun."

"Until next time." 

Junmyeon's inauguration as Luhan's right-hand—a title that Yuta understands just means 'The King For When Luhan Doesn't Feel Like Doing His Job', which isn't nearly as often as you'd expect from someone who felt the position necessary at all, but that's neither here nor there—proceeds smoothly. Because Junmyeon is Yuta's sire, that means he's now graced with a slew of royal privileges that he doesn't even know where to begin abusing. 

Baekhyun, Jongin, and Chanyeol—although they aren't directly related to Junmyeon in the way Yuta is—are faced with the same dilemma, but they seem to find their place faster than Yuta does. Baekhyun takes to the performing arts and generally being a flirtatious flapper, and he's happier than Yuta has ever, ever seen him. It's infectious, and he quickly gains rapport with nearly everybody in the gentry. Jongin follows a similar path, but it's less forceful—as quiet as he is in crowds, everybody seems to fall in love with him at first sight.

Yuta doesn't see much of Chanyeol. They had all missed him during his time in Beijing, and although nobody wants to admit it, it doesn't seem like the feeling was mutual. He kept to himself, hardly responded to their letters and party invitations. It doesn't really seem like anybody saw much of him either, because at one point even Junmyeon admits that he doesn't know what has him so preoccupied that he doesn't want to see them anymore.

As for Yuta, he mostly just wanders around the estate Luhan had granted them, rereading the same dilapidated Russian books he had brought back from Yakutsk and pondering everything and nothing until he gives himself a headache. Truthfully, ever since he had returned to Korea, he couldn't shake the feeling of a blind spot, or an old memory that's brushing uncomfortably at the edges of his conscience. It's not until he returns home from the inauguration that it finally comes to him, illuminated where Jaehyun's words echo around in his mind;

_Osaka._

His home—his first home, the country he had shed tears about—is still there. The war is over. There's absolutely nothing stopping him from getting on the next plane across that thin patch of ocean and catching up on almost a century of missed history. 

Then he remembers that he's all but completely forgotten his mother tongue, and his heart breaks for the millionth time in his long, long life. 

# SEOUL, REPUBLIC OF KOREA, 1991

_The House of Repose_ are the words on everyone's lips when Junmyeon and Luhan are found dead in the chateau's dining hall. Poisoned. 

Yuta doesn't tell anybody when he leaves or where he goes, but if anyone cares about him as much as Junmyeon did, they'd know that there's only one place they'll find him now. 

# PRESENT DAY

Jongin, after appointing himself Yuta's surrogate mother-father-guardian of sorts during their time in Yakutsk, always told him that when you're lost in life, the easiest way to start finding yourself again is to return to your roots. 

Busan, however, had changed beyond his wildest dreams the first time he had returned thereafter Junmyeon's death, and Osaka was completely unfamiliar to him. Junmyeon's manor—his manor now, he supposes—had been completely cleaned out by looters the last he heard of it, so there was nothing left for him there, either. Unless he wanted to wander around empty, dusty halls and catch pneumonia as well as an aggressive case of melancholy.

Still, there were very little times when Jongin's advice had led him astray, and so Yuta decides that there's still at least one place he has that's tied to his past, one final relic of a life that's no longer his. It was cruel of him to leave it to collect dust as long as it has been, an unjust and unearned neglect. 

The train ride to Incheon had been both familiar and jarring, Taeil's grip on his hand comforting and surreal, and for a split moment he gets the odd feeling of some otherworldly being looking down on him, patient and non judgemental, and Yuta gets the feeling this memory will be something that sticks with him for the rest of his life. 

It's certainly not the first time he's gotten that feeling, though. By the time he had left Junmyeon's House, vampires had already been fairly well accommodated in human society, even if the two remained largely separated by the invisible divide of social stigma and fear. For the first few years he had tried to abandon his new life, everything seemed impossible to forget—though the differences visually were minimal, he was enchanted at the way humans interacted sincerely, how their flaws and their passions and their individual palettes shone through first and foremost. Maybe vampires had been like that too, before the occupation or before Luhan had struck up a deal with Seoul's local government to section off an entire piece of the city just for them. _"Because we had been here first,"_ Yuta remembers him saying, _"And even if your people fear us, the truth is that before, we lived and worked and loved together. Would you deny this?"_

It didn't take Yuta very long to learn that he could be just as charming and persuasive among humans as Luhan, and it was an even shorter period of time for him to realize that this is where he truly belonged: among people whose entire lives hadn't been completely spoiled by The Game. Truthfully, he misses some of the friends he had made during those days, but as it would happen, job-hopping and hunting in the night wasn't enough to keep afloat in the busy lifestyle of modern Korea. It was easy enough to find the right contacts and become part and parcel with the underground, and considering the cloak and dagger inherent to The Game, work came especially easy. 

If the name Nakamoto Yuta meant anything to anyone in the rings he associated with, they never mentioned it, and it hasn't come back to bite him in the ass just yet.

That's neither here nor there, though, and their final stop at Incheon's beach front is just moments away. It's somewhere a little after five in the morning and the sun is just barely floating above the horizon, serene as can be. If anyone left on the train casts Yuta odd looks at the size of his sun hat, he ignores them. 

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Taeil asks. The blonde dye in his hair has faded now, leaving it a light brown that falls somewhat neatly over his forehead—only somewhat. 

Yuta squeezes his hand. "I should be asking you that, I think." 

Taeil smiles his trademark lazy smile at him, the kind that reminds Yuta of peaches and pandas and everything good and sweet in this world. "I feel tired, but I didn't want you to be alone. I know how you get about these kinds of things."

Unfortunately. Though his skin is paler and he has to take in a deep, quiet inhale before he speaks, Taeil's footsteps are steady and his eyes are brighter than he's seen them in a while. It's a small bit of hope, but still hope. 

"What do you think you'll find?" 

For some reason, even though Yuta spent the majority of the ride to Incheon staring out of the window, the question takes him by surprise. "I have no idea." he answers honestly. 

The beachfront house that Jongin had left in his name is settled just behind a large rock that juts out from the sand like a mini mountain, far enough away from the main coastline that they're completely free from anyone else's jurisdiction. It's not nearly as dilapidated as he would expect of a house that's been left to be battered by sand and sea salt for as long as it has, but a wooden plank snaps right in two as he puts his weight onto a small staircase. He shares a look with Taeil, tacitly agreeing to tread softly.

Inside, the house had been left completely furnished. The morning light hitting the drawn curtains cast a dull glow on the living room where they enter, and Yuta thinks it would have been eerie if it weren't for the fact that Jongin wanted him here at some point. The ghost of his memory is a comforting one, apparently, not sent to haunt as much as it was to guide. There are old photographs on the parts of the walls that haven't collapsed in on themselves, black and white portraits of Jongin and Junmyeon and Baekhyun, mostly expressionless but certainly real. 

"Jongin furnished the place before you came?" asks Taeil. Yuta shakes his head.

"No. I think they must have lived here." 

The thought of inheriting Junmyeon's childhood home is...overwhelming to say the least, so much so that Yuta decides it's something he will process later. For now they continue up the creaking staircase and come to a hall that splits off into four other rooms. 

"Did they all have the same sire? I still don't really get how vampire familial relations work." 

Yuta hadn't either, way back when. "They didn't as far as I know, but it's not uncommon for unrelated vampires to live together, to have their own sort of...faction, I guess. I think most covens form that way." The first room they come to is a bedroom containing a single queen-size mattress pressed up to one corner with a simple bedside dresser adjacent to it. The bed still has a full comforter set done up neatly. The thin layer of dust on the fabric gives it an odd look though, like the entire room exists in a limbo between alive and dead, revered and completely forgotten. "I know they moved around a lot before settling in Busan where I met them, but I never knew they had really settled like this." 

_This is my family's history,_ the realization comes to him like a startlingly cold draft, jarring and unnatural. Jongin wanted him to have this place. Junmyeon must have known what this place was, too, which means he wanted him to step foot in here at least once, to walk the halls he once did, to watch the way the rising moon bathes these now-empty rooms in light in the way they must have countless times over. 

"Yuta?" 

Taeil is watching him with a worried expression, and Yuta realizes he's frowning. "Hm?" 

"Thinking about Junmyeon?" 

"Mhm." 

"Maybe being here isn't so good for you." 

Yuta sighs and moves to sit on the edge of the old mattress. It's stiff. "I don't care if it's good or not. I just…" _Miss him more than I think he deserves._ "I thought I would stop feeling like I owe him something at this point. He was all I had after my family died. I know relationships between wards and their sires can be intense, but it still always felt like—like I was giving my all, and he was only giving a fraction of himself." 

Yuta remembers hating him for his distance, loving him for his reliability in every other regard. Always wanting to please him, hating himself for needing his approval so desperately. 

Taeil sits down beside him and squeezes his hand. "You always had the choice to leave, though. If you're not satisfied with a relationship, it's always your own prerogative to stay or go."

That's true, and Yuta knows that. He only realized it after it had stopped mattering. "I thought his death would free me. I thought it was finally my once chance to go. But instead everything just felt empty."

They're quiet for a while. He can tell Taeil is staring at him. The air in this house is old and musty, and Yuta has to focus on his breathing to make sure he isn't choking.

"Yuta," Taeil calls his name softly, like he always does. "Your attachment to him may have been misplaced, but you don't have to feel bad for feeling your feelings. You're hardly at fault for wanting your affections returned from someone who was supposed to care for you. You may be a vampire, but your heart is still human—nobody can deny you your own humanity."

Yuta ruminates on that. When he puts it that way, it does seem sort of silly to look at—punishing himself for loving, for wanting love. But he knows the saying about old habits dying hard.

Taeil stands, pulling at Yuta's hand to come with. "Come on. There's more to look at."

Before they exit the room, Yuta gestures towards the oaken dresser. He expects to find it empty, but pulling over the drawer reveals a mess of papers in varying states of deterioration. He picks one up—it's creased at two ends, as if it had been folded into an envelope. The date at the top reads June 21st, 1982. 

To My Dearest Yixing, is what the first line says, and oh. This—

"Chanyeol," Yuta breathes in disbelief. 

"Chanyeol had a paramour?" Taeil asks, peeking over to read the letter in Yuta's hands. He glosses over its contents, and sure enough, it reads like a love letter. 

"I guess so," he whispers. It's hard to imagine the stoic Chanyeol he always knew being involved in any kind of forbidden romance. "I wonder why he left them all here, though."

"Maybe this was their rendezvous?"

"Maybe," Yuta picks up another paper from the stack, this one from just a few years ago, and begins reading. " _'To Chanyeol. I know you may not care to read this, but there are people after my research—our research. I don't know what they want with it, but my life is in danger. I've since relocated from the place we met last, but I don't know if I'll see you again. The aristocracy is ruthless, and the target on my back is unshakable._

__

__

If they find me, then this is goodbye. I know we ended on poor terms, but know that I've never loved anyone more than I loved you.

_Adieu, mon coeur,  
Z.Y.'_"

"That's awful," Taeil comments after a brief, poignant silence. 

"Chanyeol must have passed not long after Yixing, then," Yuta muses half to himself. That's why the name Yixing was so familiar, why Chanyeol had been so absent after they returned to Seoul. All those letters he had written—he had been communicating with Yixing this entire time. And now here he is—all tangled up in matters he thought long gone. "But regardless, it means we're at a dead end now." 

He doesn't know who sent the House of Repose after Yixing or why they wanted his research, but enough time has passed now that even if they had a trail to follow, the information was probably long gone. 

Yixing was their last hope to get Taeil the help he needs. Now there was nothing.

He thinks Taeil was about to open his mouth to say something, probably some lighthearted reassurance that he's fine, that he's going to live forever and ever and he's as healthy as a horse, but all Yuta can process are his eyes rolling back in his head and his legs folding beneath him as he hits the ground with a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to all my fellow poc of color out there
> 
> anyway, this is my favorite chapter! 'chin-il-pa' is an old korean word that means traitor, and refers to koreans that worked with the japanese during the japanese occupation so they could like eat rice and not millet and maybe wouldnt be violently abused every once in a blue moon. the summer before i wrote this fic i read a bunch of books on japanese korea and i was like well cant let all that info go to waste right!!!! right
> 
> if you wanna know more about japanese korea from a source that's a bit more literary/experiential than strictly academic, i'd really recommend "when my name was keoko" by linda sue park
> 
> chapter 6 song rec: [ little green cars - harper lee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHwMDr6dMHI)


	7. Chapter 7

Fortunately for their little posse, their one saving grace for the entire fiasco of the previous night was the fact that they were still in possession of Ten's RSVP. The concert is exactly seven days from now, which means they have seven days to figure out their next move. 

"But we know what their plans are, now. Won't they call it off?" Doyoung asks once they've all regained their bearings. He had been sitting cross legged on Yangyang's bed, but Taeyong had sent him a look that said elevate that ankle right now or so help me god, so he was forced to assume a half-lying half-sitting position with one foot resting on a chair. 

"If we're really dealing with the House of Repose, it wouldn't really matter if the whole world knew about it," says Yangyang, mouth full of potato chips he had picked up from a nearby convenience store. Taeyong watches him brush crumbs off of his bed onto the floor with a scowl. 

"They take their contracts seriously is what he means," Taeyong explains. "When someone is marked for death, there's very little they can do to escape it. The House of Repose will catch up to them somehow. They always do." A thoughtful look comes over his face then as his gaze slides off somewhere to the side. Yangyang notices, but doesn't say anything.

"Anyway, that's why we still have a shot here if we can think of a way into the concert. There's not much we can do with a ticket that has none of our names on it." 

Said ticket is currently being used to catch the ashes falling from a stick of incense they had found in a drawer. "We can't just...sneak in or something?" Doyoung suggests. 

"We could try, but I can't be certain it would work out. I'd rather have as little attention drawn to us as possible." 

A silence comes over them for a few moments, considering what options they have. An idea pops into Yangyang's head. 

"Could we ask Jaehyun for help?" 

Taeyong opens his mouth like he's about to reject the idea, then he closes it. Open. Closed. "I really don't want to."

Doyoung is taken by surprise. Just when he thinks he can pin down any aspect of Taeyong's life, he's proven wrong. "Why not?" 

Taeyong purses his lips, picking his words carefully. "Jaehyun...he likes to go overboard, if you hadn't already picked up on it. With him, it's all or nothing, and like I said, I'd like to keep inconspicuous." 

"Well I think it's our easiest route, and we don't exactly have all the time in the world to think up an elaborate plan," Yangyang reasons. Doyoung agrees with him, but he doesn't say it. He's certain that Yangyang has the same misgivings as him—that Taeyong not wanting to have Jaehyun involved is for another, more personal reason. 

"How would we even contact him?" Doyoung asks instead. "It seems like it'd be a little difficult to communicate with him from the city." 

Taeyong gestures at the bag of chips in Yangyang's hand, and Yangyang passes it to him. "The same way Jaehyun contacted Yangyang, I'd assume." 

At Doyoung's incredulous look, Yangyang says "Don't worry. We'll take care of it" in his usual flippant, completely non-reassuring way. Even when Doyoung presses him for a clearer answer, he only gives a teasing smile. Taeyong rolls his eyes and leaves, the click of a door lock sounding behind him. 

It's later on that day that in an attempt to shake off the vague feeling of dread that he steps out onto the hotel balcony to get some fresh air. It's not as humid as it usually is. From where he peers out over the railing, Seoul—Taeyong's Seoul—glimmers before him, stretching out into the horizon in all directions. From above him a bird calls, and when he looks up he sees a trio of dark shapes circling under the moonlight. Somewhere off to the side a small movement indicates the presence of another, and Doyoung only jumps a little. 

Yangyang is perched on a stool, head turned up to the sky and eyes glimmering eagerly. For a few moments Doyoung just stares at him. Then he decides to bite. 

"I didn't know you liked bird watching," he says. Yangyang giggles. 

"I always thought birds liked human watching, too."

"Are you having a staring contest, then?" 

A brief pause. "Wouldn't that be interesting?" And then he finally turns to Doyoung, "I'd probably lose, though." Doyoung agrees.

It begins to make sense the next day when there's a commotion outside, and he races back out onto the balcony to see Yangyang trying to manage a decently sized bird flailing around on his forearm. There are feathers flying as the beast beats its wings and caws at him. 

Doyoung doesn't feel bad about making a decision to not assist him. It calms down eventually, at which point Yangang tentatively plucks a canister wired to the bird's leg while it's being decent. 

"I don't know why Jaehyun always uses these demon birds," he laments, patting down his frazzled hair. Then he holds the canister out to Doyoung. "Open this while I try to find my dignity again?"

The canister is an antiquated brass, with a complex engraving around the cylinder that's been scratched out by what he presumes were bird talons. Unscrewing the cap, he retrieves a small scroll of paper with a gilded ribbon tied delicately around it. 

"Don't look so shocked," Yangyang laughs. "Vampires like to stick to the old ways, you know?" 

"Cell phones are easier to use and get you faster responses," he deadpans. "Also they don't claw your face off." 

"What? So your government can spy on us? I have to laugh." 

Doyoung won't admit it, but Yangyang's got him on that end. Carefully untying the ribbon's knot, he unfurls the paper and reads it.

I'll get you in. Give me 48 hours. 

Yangyang tuts at the curtness of the response, and Doyoung feels the same way, but he supposes it's out of their hands now.

Despite his fears, Jaehyun comes through. In addition to the perfectly forged entrance tickets, he apparently felt the need to bestow upon them a myriad of expensive looking silk outfits in various styles and colors, as well as a makeup kit and a smorgasbord of jewelry and accessory pieces—to "fit in." Yangyang whistles with disbelief once their wardrobe is laid out in front of them, enough to take up both his and Doyoung's queen-sized beds and then some.

"I told you he was overkill," Taeyong says, but he looks pleased. 

"We could put on our own personal fashion show with this," Yangyang comments, lifting up a dark leather trench coat and inspecting it. It looks like it has about three layers, but it's sort of hard to tell considering it's completely black. Most of the outfits are lacking any kind of saturation, in fact, which is probably a good thing, but Doyoung doesn't know where to begin putting any of this together.

While they're looking through the clothes, Taeyong and Yangyang strike up a conversation about the fabric of one of the dress shirts, and they're apparently able to find some common ground in their interest in makeup and fashion. As it would turn out, Taeyong would spend a lot of his free time brainstorming outfits and practicing his makeup on any willing subject back when things were normal. In turn, Yangyang shares stories about his family back in China owning some big-name fashion brand and grew up learning to appreciate fashion design. 

"I wanted to be a fashion designer more than anything," he tells Taeyong, "And honestly, I think I was pretty good at it back when I was younger. But you know, now I'm here…" 

He catches Taeyong take on a sympathetic expression, at which point he looks away, something irritable prickling his skin. Doyoung himself doesn't have any input, so he just sits back and listens to them chatter using a bunch of fashion jargon he doesn't understand while he tries to remember anything Johnny had told him about outfit planning. Those college nights seem like such a far away dream now, and quickly his irritation is replaced with melancholy, then guilt. 

He hasn't given Johnny nearly as much thought as he should. Taeyong occupied most of his mind nowadays, and if it's not him, it's keeping himself alive. He trusts Taeyong, but he's still out of his element. He knows how to defend himself, but this—whatever this is—is a completely new ballgame. Even when he's just wasting time in the hotel, he's on edge. Nothing ever feels right, his intuition unsheathing its claws at something Doyoung can't recognize. When he closes his eyes and tries to breathe, all he can hear is glass shattering and too many people all around him, crowding him in, blocking off any escape. 

He catches the looks Taeyong sends him every time they order takeout and he just stares at his food morosely, willing himself to take a bite. It makes no sense. He knows he's hungry, and fatigue has started to come along with his lack of appetite, but it's like his brain is working against him, trying to kill him from the inside out. 

It gets confusing when some days, when the sun has peaked in the sky and Taeyong and Yangyang are fast asleep, and he really thinks he's dying. He feels like an idiot for throwing away twenty-four years of life in the vain hope he can rescue a friend he's only known for four. Mathematically, it's not worth the risk. He wonders if he can still get out now, if Taeyong and Yangyang would find a way to track him down and kill him if he just up and left—

But he never tries. His fear keeps him in place, not willing to step even an inch out of bounds if he can help it. He's not even sure he has the strength to go for a walk alone, or do anything that isn't exactly what Taeyong tells him to. 

He feels sick. He'd feel better if Johnny were here, he thinks, but it's a worthless thought. He just has to stick this out and hope that at the end of it all, he can lock the door to his bedroom and never come out until he feels ready.

Doyoung is scared. He's sick of his own fear, but his self disgust is cancelled out by his own shame. 

These are the thoughts that run like a whirlwind in his mind when he's left alone, unable to sleep and unable to get a grip on himself. 

Sometime in the afternoon, light pours in from between the cracks in the curtains. He remembers Donghyuck, and he decides then and there that if there's a reason for him to keep trying, it's to see him again. 

Two days later, Doyoung hardly recognizes himself in the mirror. There's a sense of surreality in trying to process the fact the clothes on his body probably cost a year of his university's tuition, and it makes him feel vertigo, so he doesn't. 

It was the simplest outfit he could pick out from what Jaehyun had sent them—a completely black dress shirt that falls halfway down his legs with a thin black cape attached at the shoulders, framing his sides and tickling the backs of his knees. He gawks at himself in the mirror while he fiddles with the buttons. He looks at the way his dark hair falls over his forehead and gets this odd disorienting feeling, its origin he can't place.

He watches Taeyong enter the room in the reflection of the full-length mirror. His own outfit is dark and lacey and not nearly as feminine as he would expect of such an ornamental dress shirt. It hugs his frame perfectly though, and Doyoung finds his gaze wandering down to his waist, even more visible now without the belt of his sheath. He gets the idea that his own hands would fit perfectly around them, and he forces himself to lift his eyes up again lest his thoughts turn down a road he won't be able to return from. 

Maybe this is worse, though. His hair is styled with a neat middle part, each side of his hair falling down just past his ears in a way that makes him look almost delicate, and it's confusing because he knows that Taeyong is anything but. It feels like time slows down while Doyoung takes in all that he is, and it feels surreal when Taeyong just gives him a simple, cavalier once-over and says, "You buttoned up your shirt wrong." 

He blushes and turns back to the mirror to find that Taeyong is right. Then he makes a sharp noise of complaint when he sees Doyoung start to unbutton them, rushing over and swatting his hands away to do it himself. 

"You're handling the fabric too roughly," he scolds, but there's no venom behind it. Even if there was, Doyoung probably wouldn't care, because right now he's hooked on Taeyong's fingers deftly rebuttoning his dress shirt, travelling up his chest and making his mind go haywire. 

Thankfully Taeyong isn't looking at him, so he can stare all he wants. It's then that he raises a hand to brush a strand of hair from his face, and Doyoung, following the movement, notices a scar beside his eye—a gentle notch of skin that looks like it was scored by something sharp. He raises his own hand to pass a thumb over it, and time freezes at first contact. 

His skin is soft, because of course it is. Doyoung can't even say that the softness of his features is a front, because it's not—it's just Taeyong, both the mask and the wearer. He's beautiful, and he doesn't pull away at the touch, just looks up at Doyoung with impossibly wide eyes that he thinks he could be convinced to kill for. Probably already has been.

Taeyong releases his hold on his clothes and brings a hand up to wrap around Doyoung's. A delicate smile comes across his features, like life's most precious flower blossoming before him, and his heart stutters. 

"It's old," he murmurs. "I'm surprised you noticed it."

There's nothing I wouldn't notice about you, Doyoung wants to confess, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

In the space between a moment and infinity, Doyoung has time to wonder why he hasn't kissed him yet. It's just the two of them here—Yangyang is in the other room, may as well be a galaxy away from them. It wouldn't be hard to reach out and touch Taeyong, bring him closer so that he can feel his breaths on his skin, feel the warmth emanating from his body. 

Taeyong inches a little closer to him, manoeuvres Doyoung's hand just enough for him to slot their fingers together. There's a spark in his eyes, something playful yet dangerous, and the moment shatters, an ocean of fire doused in an instant. 

He's smiling when he leaves, and Doyoung spends the rest of their evening trying to get a grip on the racing of his heart. 

It's excruciatingly difficult for Doyoung to put one foot in front of the other at the theater. The dark crowd of people reminds him too much of the chateau, of choking and every man out for themselves. 

Taeyong is beside him, which makes it a little easier. He likes that he stays close to him, even though he's sure it's only because there are just so many people around them. Yangyang seems excited to see the show, and somehow that's grounding, too. 

Jaehyun had them seated close together in the crowd, center audience. Taeyong complained, saying it would be easier for them to find Ten again if they could see different parts of the theater, but Doyoung doesn't feel the same way. His pulse is racing from the moment he takes his seat, all the way up until the lights dim and the curtains open. 

Doyoung played violin, once upon a time. He had actually really enjoyed it back then, but somehow as he grew older the sound of horsehair and resin against catgut strings became too loud, too jarring for him to enjoy. The shift to piano felt natural, and the only songs he ever learned required a gentleness and patience that he didn't know he needed back then—something to stabilize him, focusing on delivering those sweet melancholy feelings as well as he could with only a set of eighty-eight keys attached to steel strings. 

The piece opens with a solemn double-bass, a simple melody with long, drawn-out notes. Doyoung counts the measures in his head, taps his thumb on his thigh in time with the cellos when they come in. 

When the pianist begins [her part,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO5fLLHj55k) Doyoung forgets where he is. At this angle he can't see her hands dance across the keys, so he lets his eyes close and lets the music drown him. 

It's a beautiful piece. It makes him think of his grandmother's house during the Summer, when the cicadas were a near constant ambience and the warm smell of her authentic tatami mats permeated every room in the house. For a split second he's back there, sitting out on the porch and looking at all of the other homes in the neighborhood, wanting and wanting for something magical to happen to him, something that would change his world forever. 

In his mind there's a light breeze, in it Taeyong and Yangyang's low voices carrying in from somewhere distant. He ignores it, because he doesn't realize he has any other option. 

A hand comes to rest on his upper arm and he opens his eyes again. Taeyong is looking at him warmly with a faint smile playing on his lips, and Doyoung wants to kiss him so bad. Usually he flinches away from any kind of PDA, but right now he doesn't care that there are people all around them, that anyone could see all of the raw affection Doyoung has for Lee Taeyong and Lee Taeyong only. 

His pulse quickens again when Taeyong leans in so that their faces are close, close enough for him to feel the soft puffs of air when he speaks; 

"Don't lose yourself," he whispers, voice so light in the air that Doyoung hardly catches it. He jerks his head towards the orchestra. "Yangyang suspects the harp player. In the back, far left. Look." 

Doyoung looks. The harp player in question is a young man in all white, completely nondescript compared to the rest of the orchestra dressed similarly. His fingers dance across the strings calmly and fluidly, practiced and sure, and Doyoung can't piece together anything about him that would tip Yangyang off. 

Except, except. The longer he watches him the easier it is for him to notice the way his gaze keeps flickering somewhere above them, steady, every two measures like clockwork. When Doyoung twists his head around to see where he's looking, his eyes land on an empty seat in the loft seating above them. It's a dark and empty space and it gives him a really, really bad feeling.

He nods, turning back to the performance. It might be a long shot, but any suspect is better than none. He lets himself tune back into the music, but this time he keeps his eyes trained on the harpist, following his gaze where they dash around the audience, the theater, his fellow musicians. 

Taeyong's hand doesn't leave his arm though, and it's distracting. Doyoung understands his own selfishness when he doesn't move a muscle lest Taeyong interpret it as discomfort. The warmth of his gloved hand makes him nigh ecstatic, and somewhere deep down, he knows that something is going to break soon. 

The performance continues. The itinerary specified that the concerto would be split into three parts, and when the second opus begins, his nervousness returns. 

He knows it isn't only him. The glances Taeyong and Yangyang have been casting each other grow increasingly uneasy, and Doyoung understands. 

It's been nearly an hour and nothing has happened yet. The instruments have crescendoed at this point in the piece, so Doyoung can't pick up on what Taeyong and Yangyang are whispering to each other, but he can see their heads leaned in closely, conspiratorially. Then Taeyong stands, shuffling through the rows of people as politely as he can. He only turns back once to cast an unreadable look at Doyoung, then he's disappearing down the aisle and through the auditorium's front entrance. Yangyang takes his spot next to Doyoung. 

"He thinks something's wrong. He went to investigate." 

Doyoung nods and tries to muffle his panic before it chokes him. He can be okay without Taeyong. Taeyong isn't his rock. He's just—just… 

Yangyang pats his shoulder as if sensing his tension. It doesn't really help, so Doyoung just gives a terse nod and turns back to the stage. 

Though he's starkly aware of Taeyong's absence, he ignores it because he has to. They have a mission here, and he can't screw this up for them. 

But he can't focus. Everything's been thrown off, nervousness creeping into every cell in his body with reckless abandon, and he doesn't know how to stop it. He's doing his best to control his breathing, but the clothes on his body are suddenly too tight, the fabric too uncomfortable. 

He understands where this is going, even if he can't put it into a coherent thought just yet. He's about to excuse himself to find a bathroom, or anywhere quiet where he can come apart at the seams in peace, but there's a sickening crunch somewhere just beside him, and even as he flinches violently, the spray of warm liquid doesn't miss the side of his face. 

On stage, the harpist stops playing to stare in horror. His fellow musicians all have their eyes on their sheet music, their ears only hearing the rhythm of everybody else around them. Nobody else in the orchestra sees the silver bullet fly through the air and cut through the skull of someone in the audience, thick pieces of their skeleton painted a deep read splattering the person next to them, the chair, the carpeted floor underfoot. 

Doyoung doesn't see the harp player, and he doesn't notice the gentle, trickling notes of his instrument come to an abrupt end. The stranger sitting beside him is lilting to the side, Doyoung's side, the innards of his skull dripping out through the fresh hole in the side of his head. Some of what splashed onto his face drips onto his arm, the expensive cloth that Jaehyun had gotten for him, and his mind is absolutely frozen in time. 

The last words he can process in his mind are Please, go back in time, let me try again, I can't do this twice. 

His wish isn't granted, because the screaming starts not long after, and everything starts to move in doubletime. 

There's no chandelier, no loud crash, but there's the smell of iron far too close for comfort, bright and vivid against his senses, pressing in everywhere as Yangyang pulls him through the crowd of fleeing people, pushing and tripping over the living bodies in their way. The orchestra has stopped playing by the time they make it to the lovely wooden doors, probably antique, and he's still being yanked forward in a daze through a different metal door, leading to a different corridor and up a different set of stairs, and now his stomach is finally catching up with what's transpired because he can hardly stop himself from vomiting as they tear through random halls in the theater.

"...see him too?" Yangyang is asking. 

Doyoung's ears resume function. "What?" 

"Ten, I saw him—just before it happened—wearing this stupid ass bedazzled glove that sparkled in the light, of course it would give him away—" 

"I thought it was the harp player?" Doyoung asks, wiping the blood off his face, trying not to let it send him into an episode. He's breathing harshly, not completely because of the physical strain Yangyang has put him under. 

"I was wrong," he says. "It doesn't matter. We need to find Taeyong."

And they do find him, a single blur down an intersecting hall, and both of them are haring after him without a second thought. 

Ten is fast, but so is Taeyong. The sound of steel against fibreboard reverberates down each of the halls, and when they come to an intersection for a moment they can't tell which way he went. 

"Fuck this fucking labyrinth," Yangyang curses, and picks one direction at random. Doyoung follows him blindly, not wanting to be alone. 

Luck is on their side for the moment, because they pick the right one. They find Taeyong in a room at the very end of the hall, cornering Ten in the tech booth. He's pacing slowly around a large center sound panel, he and Taeyong squaring off, poised to pounce at any moment. He's shed the glove on one of his hands, in its place a glistening silver sickle. There's a noticeable scar running from his eyebrow to the opposite corner of his lip, a mark from Yangyang. His gaze darts to him and Doyoung for a second before returning to Taeyong.

"Lucky," he bites out bitterly. "So fucking lucky I'm not as cruel." 

"Not cruel enough to murder in cold blood for money?" Yangyang shoots back. 

Taeyong has his machete drawn too, fingers dancing on the grip. "You're cornered," he says. "If you make this easy for us, we'll make it easy for you," he says. 

Ten looks between the three of them, expression hardened and unreadable. 

"Like I haven't heard that one before," is his response. 

Taeyong moves first. 

The clash of steel on steel is horribly jarring, and Doyoung can't help but flinch back in surprise, hands flying up to his ears. He opens his eyes in time to watch their impasse, Ten's sickle shielding him from Taeyong's machete. Yangyang sprints to the other side of the room with two daggers in either hand. Ten gives a hard shove forward to throw Taeyong off of him, who stumbles backwards and lands on his arms. He lashes out with the butt of his sickle just as Yangyang reaches him, who holds his ground even as the hard rubber collides with his collarbone.

Ten is backing up slowly with his sickle held out in front of him when the glint of something metallic catches his eye. He doesn't have time to think about why the sniper rifle has been discarded so haphazardly, but just as he gets his hands on it something hard collides with his head and he's momentarily blinded. 

"Ten!" someone shouts, and Doyoung tries to reach for the sheath of his dagger but his body seems to be moving in slow motion even though the scuffling around him is frenzied; there's more metal colliding and the sound of bodies crashing but the surrounding darkness won't dissipate no matter how hard he tries to focus his vision on something, anything. 

By the time the world returns, the only thing Doyoung catches is the tail end of Taeyong's mantle flying out the door. He nearly slips on his own blood as he tries to stand, but he catches himself and tries his best to chase after him without losing his footing.

At the end of one hall is an elevator, and he can see Ten frantically pressing a button inside mouthing something to himself. Taeyong already has his machete outstretched and just barely misses the elevator doors before they shut. He curses under his breath.

"Stairs!" Yangyang calls from another direction, and both of them follow it on quick feet. Doyoung is grateful his disorientation has disappeared by now because they descend several steps at a time, Taeyong swift on his feet chasing Yangyang's shouts echoing up from the bottom. They skip the landing that leads to the main floor, and the stairs spill out into a white and undecorated basement floor. They're staring down a wide, empty hall with fluorescent lighting and absolutely nobody in sight. Heavy, windowless doors line the walls. To one wall is an array of extended metal bars upholding the stage above them. Once upon a time it might have been nice to listen to them play from down here, muffled and solitary. 

Down the hall a door bursts open suddenly and out springs Yangyang, daggers drawn and face grave. He races to Taeyong and Doyoung when he spots them.

"Lost them," he pants, out of breath. "But I know they came down here. They split up and lost me that way, I think this place might be connected to the tunnels somehow—"

"Then we need to follow them," Doyoung interjects. "Now, they're only getting farther and farther away while we stand here," he's already sprinting from door to door, checking which are locked and which aren't. Most of them are. Yangyang and Taeyong take after him, and with the three of them together they find the entrance quick enough. It's a taller set of heavy doors and Doyoung only realizes he's found it because of Yangyang's muffled "Here!" just as they shut behind him.

This entrance is much better maintained than the others he's ventured down. The stairs are a gray metal with matching steel supports snaking up the stone brick walls. Their footsteps reverberate loudly and endlessly as they race down and down, and the ringing in Doyoung's ears are a welcome change from the shock of the orchestra causing his mind to freeze up. He wants to ride this adrenaline high as far as it will take him or else he's going to be left in the dust. 

"We don't even know if they actually came down here," Taeyong says, but he doesn't stop moving. 

"There's no else they could go," Doyoung reasons. Mostly for himself. "It's the most convenient exit for them—" Too convenient, Doyoung thinks. How can these tunnels be such a secret if they're connected to so many places?

"I've never been on this side of town. I won't be able to navigate them well." says Taeyong. 

"Then so be it," Doyoung responds just under his breath. Whatever it takes. He isn't going to be caught off guard again. 

Doyoung clings to the blood rushing through his ears as he surveys the area. The nexus this time is just as clean and, as such, must be just as well frequented. The proof is in the circle of torches dancing fervently in the clearing. The line is only broken once by a single empty post where one would have been lit. Scattered in the ground are small divots that he can't make heads or tails of, and as his eyes trail the ground he notices a heavy set of bootprints that are undeniably recent. Before he can point them out Yangyang is already taking off down one of several tunnel entrances kicking up dust in his wake. The edge of his heel just barely skirts around one of the pockets and the next thing he hears is a deafening boom. An explosion of rock bursts out violently from the wall just where Yangyang had passed and Doyoung flinches hard, both of his hands flying up to his ears; the entire hall fills with old dust that obscures his vision as the ground shakes beneath them. The din reverberates up and down the cavern, causing small pebbles to rain down from above like dry mist and tickle his eyelashes. Blinking away the tears, he waits until he can no longer feel the vibration in the air to remove his hands from the side of his head. 

"What the fuck was that?" he asks, heart racing. Taeyong looks just as shaken, eyes wide and body tense. 

"Dynamite," he answers, and just as the words leave his mouth another roar begins to slowly come into itself. Taeyong flinches as a light powdery something falls on the bridge of his nose, and both of them look up at the same time to find small granules of dirt and rock raining down from the high ceiling. Doyoung's heart rate skyrockets. 

They're collapsing the fucking tunnels.

And lo, just as the realization hits him, the ceiling begins to cave in a ways down the tunnel where Yangyang bolted off, and soon the entire tunnel is blocked off by a wall of old stone and cement. The air is heavy with dust at this point, and Doyoung tries his best not to cough up a lung. 

Taeyong comes up beside him, gets a gentle grip on his arm as his voice turns soft. In the ad infinitum in between their eyes meeting and far away words pouring from out of his mouth, Doyoung wants nothing more than to breathe all of him in, to let the world waste away and trap them underground for eternity, just the two of them, alone and together. Like infinity, it's gone within a moment. 

"We have to go," Taeyong is saying. It comes out soft, but there's a gravity to his words that frightens him. 

"Go back? What about Yangyang?" 

Taeyong shakes his head and nods towards the other tunnel entrance. "Yangyang will be fine. He's not as incompetent as he looks." Doyoung is about to protest some more—what if the tunnels collapse some more? It's too dangerous, and we can't know for sure if Yangyang made it out okay—but then Taeyong's grip on his arm tightens infinitesimally so. His voice becomes quieter still. "I'm not letting them go a second time, Doyoung." 

In the face of the rage that's fermenting just beneath his skin, Doyoung knows his only option is to swallow his fear and nod. "Okay," he answers just as softly, "I'll go with you, Taeyong. Wherever you go." 

And Taeyong smiles at him, warm and inviting, and then they're both off at a brisk pace down the second cavern. 

"Do you know where we're going?" Doyoung asks after some time has passed, Taeyong keeping his gaze trained ahead of him all the while. At first Doyoung thinks it's just his imagination that's coming up with the uncomfortable ambience—he swears there are voices, shouts, soft, empty clattering of more rocks and metal from everywhere and nowhere at once—but he notices Taeyong's head jerking slightly to the side whenever Doyoung thinks he hears something too. Putting video game logic to use, he can only assume that because the environment seems dead set on ruffling his feathers, they must be going in the right direction. 

"No," he tells him. "But it's not uncommon for these tunnels to connect. They're a lot less organized than they might look. Rabbits, remember?" 

Doyoung does remember. Not that it really helps. It kind of just gives him a I'm not stuck in here with you, you're stuck in here with me, feeling. He has no choice but to trust Taeyong though, so he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other. 

What they end up finding boggles his mind. 

The first part of it is something of an outpost from what they can piece together; large portions of stone carved out in the walls to form makeshift shelters or watchtowers. It's old and dusted over, but there are clear remnants of life—old barrels and wooden signs, old pipes jutting out from the walls, even deep boot prints that look like they've been here for years. 

Taeyong looks just as puzzled as he feels. "I have no idea what we've found, Doyoung," he admits. They've slowed down to a stop at this point, gazing around at the abandoned life around them. 

"Could it be an old mineshaft?" Doyoung suggests. 

"I'm not sure. Maybe. I really don't know. It looks like people might have lived here." 

When they get moving again, the tunnel becomes less of a tunnel and more of a full on settlement. The path they were following splits off into several different other ones—paths that are essentially roads at this point. There are waypoints carved into the walls, some more legible than others, and the outposts that grow in number also increase in sophistication. . It's undeniable at this point that people must have lived here for a long, long time—but right now it's a complete ghosttown. They need to be moving quicker, he knows, but this is all just too out of his world that he can't up his pace to anything that won't allow the chance to breathe this place in. 

There's one building dwelling in particular with a broken window that grabs Doyoung's attention. He peeks in out of curiosity, and he can't make out very much besides the fact that the old furniture is coated with dust and looks like it'll fall over if he breathed on it a little too hard. Then he turns his head and nearly trips with how hard he jerks himself away from the window. 

"Yeah," he hears Taeyong say from somewhere behind him. "Guess this is a cemetery, now." 

The self sabotaging part of Doyoung wants to look in again just to be sure what he saw was real, and sure enough, there's a dessicated corpse sitting up against the wall staring at nothing. His stomach churns. He doesn't want to be here anymore.

"Can we keep going, please?" he asks. He fully expects Taeyong to tease him about getting cold feet, but nothing is forthcoming. He gestures towards the main road and set off again.

The little underground town they've discovered is a lot more expansive than they would have expected. It's easy to imagine being lost here, to forget which way they come from and which way they're supposed to go. There are remnants of what look like old maps or waypoints, but they're illegible if not completely withered away. 

It's a discomfort Doyoung's never experienced to walk through a place filled with so much death, like he's interrupting their peace, encroaching on a land that isn't his. Still, there's so much evidence of the life that had been here, it's not so difficult for him to imagine people and children walking beside him now, the idle conversations of passerby left to echo forever between damp walls, or small gardens in the form of near-fossilized plant stems that were left to decay for years, decades, maybe centuries. 

Taeyong, for his part, has his chin held high with a sharp gaze. He may be from the realm of the living, but Doyoung understands that this is his element. He's just a guest, a wary traveler. He hopes they find Yangyang soon.

"Jaehyun used to mention some kind of mass exodus a long time ago," Taeyong muses at some point. "Back when Japan invaded Korea and all the vampires fled north." 

"The vampires fled?" Doyoung isn't particularly interested in a history lesson right now, but it's something to distract him from the death and decay around every corner. He latches onto Taeyong's words like a lifesaver. 

"Mhm," he hums. "The vampires back then, they were a lot friendlier with humans than they are now. Just a step over from perfect coexistence, really, but they didn't want to get involved in human affairs. So when true fighting broke out, they grouped together and moved north."

"Into China?"

"Some, yeah. Jaehyun went to Russia. Luhan led most of the vampires west, though, to Beijing. They had it pretty good there, apparently."

The name clinks around in his mind before he remembers the painting in Jaehyun's home. "The man in the painting."

"Jaehyun always loved that painting," Taeyong muses to himself. "But yeah, that's him. My father." 

And then Doyoung recalls Ten's taunt. from the tunnels running under Neo Zone. The sudden tightness in his voice lets Doyoung know he's treading dangerous waters, but he wants to test them all the same. "He died when you were young?" 

Taeyong nods. "Vampires...we're immortal, but The Game might as well render that aspect of our physiology completely null. Grapple enough power, and you're bound to fall from your tower." He mimes a decapitation with his hand, and Doyoung gets it. He gets it, but he doesn't understand. 

He wants to keep talking to Taeyong, but he's not really sure where to continue the conversation from here. Apparently though, Taeyong has a lot on his mind.

"I thought about it for a long time, you know?" he begins. "Back when Korea was whole, humans and vampires were friends. It only changed when the Japanese started to force their culture on us, made them take Japanese names and tortured them for the whereabouts of any vampires that hadn't migrated north. Korea had never hated vampires the way Japan did back then. Back then it was normal. It was okay to have fangs, to live in the darkness. We were different but equal."

He's quiet for a moment, then he sighs. "I don't know. There's no point in getting stuck on what's a hundred years gone now, but sometimes I can't help but reminisce on the life I could have had if those things hadn't happened. Then I wouldn't be hated for just existing." 

It's that final line that really makes it click for Doyoung—Taeyong really doesn't have a place to belong. He's vilified on either side for being both a vampire and a human. The people that were supposed to love and protect him only showed him rejection, and even if he wanted to leave, where could he go? Pretend to be a human in downtown Seoul? Live a half-life hiding who he really is just for the chance to be shown any semblance of humanity? 

For a brief and altogether despairing second, the pain of what Taeyong—no, all of the vampires in South Korea—have been enduring for all this time makes him sick to his very core. He missteps, and Taeyong is there right by his side to catch him.

"Are you okay? Is it your ankle?" he worries.

"I'm okay," he says. "I just wasn't watching."

Taeyong nods. He puts some space between them and doesn't say anything. Probably against his better judgement, he speaks again before he can think it through. "I won't pretend to know exactly what your life has been like or what you and your people have had to endure, but I see more in you than your bloodline. I like you for you."

Taeyong smiles at him. It's a sad one. Bittersweet. "That's nice of you, Doyoung, but I'll have to see it before I believe it." 

His heart sinks. He should have known better than to think flattery would untie all the knots in Taeyong's identity crisis. 

He meant well, anyway. He thinks Taeyong appreciates that regardless. He hopes he does. 

They continue exploring the underground city in relative silence, breaking it only to point out interesting finds or clues as to what this place actually is. Even though they stick together, Doyoung can't imagine himself ever getting used to the desiccated bodies he finds propped up against old stone or half-buried under the occasional cave-in. It's hard not to get stuck on the idea of someone's entire life being sealed underground to be forgotten for all of eternity. 

Doyoung has never been scared of death itself. It was only ever the circumstances surrounding it that ruffled his feathers, and a death as claustrophobic as what the people in this underground labyrinth makes his skin crawl like nothing else. 

"I don't think we're really finding anything here," Taeyong says after they've scoured most of the perimeter from what they can tell. They came across a fair amount of barred doors, which they both found odd, but they didn't have the means to break them down, nor did they really want to. 

Doyoung agrees with him. "Do you think Yangyang stopped to search this place too?" 

Taeyong shrugs. "I thought that we might have found him here, or evidence of him at least being here, but I haven't seen anything."

Doyoung hasn't either. Yangyang could be a mile beneath them for all they knew, still chasing their target. "One-track mind?"

"Something like that, probably." 

They both agree to turn back and try to find the main road again, and for a while there's a whole lot of nothing. He thinks the settlement has finally come to an end until the walls start to grow higher and higher, curving into a tall archway that stretches yet onward.  
Doyoung holds the torch out in front of him, but there isn't very much to see. The air in here is heavy and saturated enough with old dust that it tickles the inside of his throat. He holds in his coughs and takes careful steps forward. 

"Scream if you find anything," Taeyong says from another part of the basement. 

"Sure thing," he calls back. 

Doyoung ends up finding a whole lot of nothing. The walls on either side of him are too far away to make out, and he gets the sense that he's standing in a bottomless pit at the very end of nowhere. His heart is thumping in his chest, but he has to convince himself that Taeyong is close by, there's nothing to be scared of. Worst case scenario, he finds an old skeleton or other half-decayed corpses. Completely harmless. 

Eventually he makes it to the far end of the room, and he's about to turn back and start from the beginning when a dark mass catches his eye in the corner of his vision. He holds out the torch to try and illuminate it more, and he realizes that it's attached to something long and draped in tattered cloth, which in turn is connected to what's definitely a torso, and then there are eyes peering back at him that reflect the orange light of the torch in a way that seems equal parts human and inhuman. 

All of Doyoung's internal organs nearly fall out of his ass. His mental faculties have been rendered completely useless as sheer horror overtakes his entire body and he's too scared to move. The body doesn't move either, but Doyoung's heart practically leaps out of his throat when the dead eyes holding his gaze blink. 

"Um," Doyoung tries. The person's hand twitches where it's resting in his lap, but he doesn't show any other reaction. "Are you okay?" 

It's a dumb question, but the gears in his head are only just starting to slot themselves back into place. The person doesn't respond, but he does blink again. Doyoung finally notices that his chest is indeed rising and falling, so he's certainly alive. 

"Doyoung? Who are you talking to?" Taeyong's voice echoes through the basement, and the stranger flinches. 

"Hey, it's okay," Doyoung tries to comfort. "I'm not gonna hurt you. We're not gonna hurt you." 

He chances a careful step forward. The person doesn't move, but his shoulders tense up and his hand curls into a fearful fist into the cold ground. The motion of the torch illuminates the side of his face, revealing a patch of skin that appears to have been gouged out some way or other in the junction of his neck and shoulder. The shadow of hollowed cheekbones becomes apparent too, along with deep eye bags and unkempt hair. Beneath all of that though, all Doyoung can see is a scared young man—somewhere around Donghyuck's age, if he had to guess. 

Why are you down here? Doyoung wants to ask. Who put you here?

Footsteps sound behind him, Taeyong's face manifesting out of the darkness. 

"Who are you...oh." 

He holds out his own torch for Doyoung to take, then he's kneeling beside the boy and reaching up to touch his face. He turns his head away to avoid the contact, but Taeyong is relentless with his gentleness. He passes over the wound at the base of his throat and then lifts the hand from his lap to feel for a pulse. 

Something in Doyoung's chest twists. An image of Taeyong caressing him with this much gentleness flashes through his mind and disappears within an instant.

"What's your name?" he hears Taeyong ask. There's a soft murmur that neither of them can make out, so he asks again.

"Jeno," the boy fights to get out, like he's scared to tell them. His voice is hoarse and scratchy. He winces at the exertion simply speaking requires, and Doyoung wonders when the last time he had any water was, or the last time he ate. 

"How long have you been down here?" Doyoung asks. Jeno casts his eyes down to his lap and doesn't answer. Taeyong releases his hand and gestures to Doyoung for his torch. 

"Do you remember, Doyoung, what I had told you back at the wedding up in the ramparts?" he asks. "When I said that some vampires consider humans cattle, I wasn't exaggerating." 

It takes him a few moments to process what that's supposed to mean, and then the implications of where they are in conjunction with who they're after slowly start to sink in. An abandoned tunnel system, secretive assassin leagues, death, death, death…

Vertigo washes over him suddenly, and he very nearly lets his torch slip from his grasp. 

But, he has to remind himself. He's out of his element. There's a lot he wants to do, a lot he wants to say, but he has to follow Taeyong here. He has to if he wants to make it out alive, if he wants to find Johnny. 

And what Taeyong does, apparently, is release Jeno's hand and stand. He gestures with his head for Doyoung to follow back the way they came, but this time he doesn't.

"Taeyong?" he asks with disbelief.

"We need to go," he says. "There's nothing down here after all. This place is more dangerous than I realized." 

That...that doesn't compute. "But what about Jeno?" 

"What about him? Do I have to remind you again what we came here for, Doyoung?" 

"You're just going to leave him to die? To waste away underground? Don't you think he has a family waiting for him somewhere that want to know what happened to their son, their brother?" 

Doyoung doesn't get angry very often. It's a horrible feeling, and he'd much rather try his hardest to forgive or forget, anything to avoid any more conflict than necessary. 

He's not sure why he's getting so riled up—if it's Taeyong's nonchalance or grief over Jeno's life that's apparently been all but completely forgotten.

It's the same with Donghyuck, he supposes. If he had done more, maybe things would be different. If he had let his anger become an impetus to do something more. 

Taeyong's eyebrows are raised slightly, surprised at his outburst. He glances towards the emptiness they came from, then to Jeno, and back to Doyoung. "You can put him out of his misery if you want to. I'm leaving." 

And leave he does. His footsteps echo throughout the empty basement until the light of his torch becomes nothing from a glow from around the corner, and then it's gone. Jeno is still staring at the ground. There's a faint tremble in his hand, the one Taeyong had held, sweet and motherly.

Doyoung doesn't understand. He doesn't understand Taeyong's cruelty or his selfishness, and he doesn't understand how he can still be so thoughtful and caring. Most of all, he can't understand why Doyoung doesn't want to let go of him. 

Maybe it's because of that attraction that after a long minute of standing and contemplating what to do, eventually he takes after Taeyong. He doesn't want to think it is. It'd be far easier and less painful for his mental wellbeing to just list his own weakness and aversion to conflict that he doesn't stay and help Jeno, but that wouldn't be the truth. And right now amid all this chaos and bloodshed, the truth is all Doyoung has to stick to.

It doesn't make him feel any better about abandoning Jeno. It doesn't make him feel any better at all. More and more it seems like whatever Doyoung had considered the truth is becoming increasingly irrelevant in a world that doesn't fit his mold.

Taeyong is leaning against the wall inspecting his dagger when Doyoung catches up to him. He fixes Doyoung with a look. 

"Ready to go?" he asks with mock sweetness. 

"I don't need your condescension right now," Doyoung returns sharply. 

Taeyong probably had a snarky quip on the edge of his tongue, but there are muffled shouts that reach them from somewhere in the distance. 

"Stop! I'm not—" 

The voice is cut off by the sound of boulders crashing, and the ground trembles slightly. They both rush out of the basement loft to find the source of the commotion.

"Yangyang? Is that you?" Taeyong calls. 

"Taeyong? Taeyong!" Yangyang returns. "Don't come this way, there are—" 

Another ear splitting explosion rips through the air, far stronger than the last one. The ground shakes violently underfoot as they struggle to keep their balance, and Doyoung catches a glimpse of the ceiling above them starting to cave in. 

He moves before he can think, grabbing Taeyong's arm and making a B-line back towards the way they came. He doesn't look behind him, but the debris in the air is becoming thicker, whipping his face and tickling his lungs as the moving earth behind them races to catch up, hellbent on burying them beneath its wrath. 

They've almost reached salvation when the ceiling just ahead of them begins to rain down chunks of rock onto their path. Something large starts to dip in through the cracks in the ceiling, and Doyoung doesn't hesitate to ram into Taeyong's side, sending them both skidding into rough stone just as the jagged slab of rock from above gives, slamming into the earth just where they had been about to pass through. 

The spray of stone and dirt sears his skin, but he knows he has a tight grip on Taeyong's arms, kneeling over him like a shield until the air stops vibrating and the ringing in his ears starts to fade. 

"Are you okay?" Doyoung asks, sitting up with caution. His eyes are watering at the procession of old dirt in the air, everything around them turned sepia. 

"Yeah," Taeyong answers. "I'm okay." Then he coughs, and Doyoung remembers his handkerchief. He ties it around the lower half of Taeyong's face like a mask and tries not to think about how close they are. 

"We need to find Yangyang," he says when they've both regained their bearings. 

It's easier said than done. The cavern is near unrecognizable. Massive sections of collapsed ceiling have blocked off the path they had heard Yangyang's voice coming from, and the dust in the air is heavy enough that they can't clearly make out where they came from or where they're supposed to go. 

There's only one tunnel entrance that's only half collapsed, a thin sliver of space just barely large enough for them to fit through. Neither of them know where it leads, but they don't have any other options. Doyoung thinks that it's by the grace of God that the path loops back around to their starting point somehow, and he recognizes the cellar entrance immediately. He takes off towards it without a second thought, ignoring Taeyong when he calls after him. 

Although the staircase down is still stable, the basement is noticeably smaller, a section of a wall caved in dramatically. He can hear the earth creaking the farther and farther in he walks.

"Jeno? Are you here?" 

There's no response, but Doyoung doesn't slow his steps. 

"Doyoung, we can't be in here—the walls aren't stable, they could collapse at any—"

Doyoung hushes him loudly when another sound reaches his ears, a quiet sniffle. It comes again after a few long moments and Doyoung follows it until he finds Jeno curled up in an opposite corner sobbing quietly. His tears reflect the fire of his torch, and his eyes are wide and full of so much terror, so much life. He shoves his torch into Taeyong's hand and leans down to help him up.

"Doyoung, no."

"I'm not leaving this place without him," Doyoung asserts. Jeno's whole body is trembling against his side, murmuring words that sound like don't want to die here, please don't let me die here. 

"Where are we supposed to take him? Is he even mentally sound? We need to worry about ourselves, Doyoung."

"Go ahead without me if you want. I'll meet you at the hotel." 

And Taeyong just glares at him with growing agitation before scoffing angrily. You're not always going to get what you want, Doyoung wants to say, but he bites it back because Taeyong is at his side helping with Jeno's weight. He notices the bad wound on his ankle, a ring of dark skin like dried blood from a wound that never healed right. His hand clenches whenever he puts even the slightest weight on it, and Doyoung can almost feel his pain with each step. 

He must be so scared. He has two strangers supporting him from either side, both of their dust-covered hands touching his own damaged body, dirt and blood caked on almost every exposed inch of skin. He wants to apologize, he wants to tell him that he's not here to hurt him, but he knows he won't believe it. It won't matter. All Doyoung has is a promise to himself, to Donghyuck, now to Jeno. 

Against all odds, they make it out alive and safe. It takes a lot of backtracking, subdued panic, and silent prayers, but even when the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel becomes a reality, Doyoung can't find it in himself to smile. He's relieved, sure, but it feels like everything around him is as transient as a dream when the one thing at the forefront of his mind is that they never found Yangyang. They called his name to no avail, their voices only ever echoing back at them through the dust. Neither he nor Doyoung mention it, but they don't need to. 

The ladder up to the grate is embedded in cement inside a surface level storm drain, luckily still within city limits. Jeno is difficult to coax into sunlight, but Doyoung gives him his cape that provides a decent shade from the light. He has broad shoulders but he drowns in the cloth anyway. His hands aren't steady enough to pull the hood over his head, so Doyoung does it for him. 

It takes some time to reorient themselves, but when they do Taeyong is able to pull some strings and get them a ride home. Doyoung thinks 'home' is back at the hotel, but he's not surprised when their mode of transport is another horse-drawn carriage and soon enough Seoul is miles behind them, a gray silhouette that claws at a pale blue sky.

He's back in the same room Jaehyun had given him the first time. He left Taeyong and Jaehyun to care for Jeno, certain that his brain was about to leak out of his skull if this day went on for any longer. He had enough strength to take a shower and he had watched all the earth run off from his skin, turning the water a light brown as it swirled into the drain, hypnotic. 

Laying on his side in bed, Doyoung picks up his sheath from the bedside table and balances it in one palm. He had it the whole time. It's weight against his side was impossible to ignore, but he had never used it. He's not sure if he'd even be able to. It had been a waste of Jaehyun's resources. 

He sets it down again, then changes his mind and stores it in a drawer. He can't even bear to look at it, but even out of sight there's an energy around it that seems to haunt him. He lays his head back against the pillows and shuts his eyes, wondering what's going to happen next. 

He could forgive himself for giving up. He's done what he could, but he's not strong enough, not clever enough. Too sympathetic for The Game. He doesn't belong here, and it was stupid of him for think he could get through this unscathed. 

"Sorry," he murmurs to himself, as if somewhere out there Johnny will be able to hear him and grant him absolution. As if his own guilt will reverberate all through the ground underfoot and reach Yangyang, wherever his body is laying buried. 

"For?" Taeyong's voice sounds from the door. Doyoung opens his eyes. Even the soft candlelight is too much. Maybe he should have stayed in the dark.

"I'm mourning, Taeyong." 

Taeyong takes a seat next to him on the bed, and through it all there's that slow, painful feeling of yearning again, wholly magnetic and impossible to ignore. Doyoung stays put.

"Yangyang knew what he was getting into," he says. 

"I know. That doesn't mean I can't regret what happened." 

A few moments pause. "He probably didn't have anyone that would mourn him, you know. Most people in his line of work don't. It's good that you want to keep him in your memory." His voice is low and sweet. Comforting. Doyoung wants to touch him so damn badly. 

Maybe Taeyong reads his mind or maybe the universe is finally taking pity on him, but Taeyong turns his head just then to look at him. He raises a hand to Doyoung's cheek and thumbs over the old scar there. 

"This is healing well," he comments, but Doyoung hardly processes it. Before he's conscious of his own actions, he lifts his own hand to wrap around Taeyong's, gentle, like he'll flee at the slightest pressure, and that all-consuming ardor that comes with falling in love hits him full force when their eyes lock. 

Taeyong doesn't move, doesn't even bother to hide the shock on his face at Doyoung's courage. That's not really what it is, though. This is something more primal, a kind of self-sabotaging intimacy, and for once in his life Doyoung considers indulging it. The thought scares him, but even as he clings onto that fear of losing control and doing something he'll regret, it only ends up amplifying the heat and raw excitement broiling in his chest, a feedback loop of emotion he doesn't know how to cut off, nor does he want to.

Doyoung should have admitted it to himself sooner. He wants Taeyong to be his. He wants to be the apple of his eye, the only person whose attention he cares about. He wants to be the person Taeyong thinks about at night when he's lying on his side with his hands between his legs, the name on his lips when he reaches his peak alone in the dark. He wants to be the only person Taeyong feeds from, wants the taste of his blood to be so permanently engraved on Taeyong's tongue that it drives him insane when he's not around. 

He feels guilty for wanting these things, but somehow that makes it all better—the pleasure in being able to throw yourself completely and wholeheartedly into a sin, into lust and greed and everything that comes with it. 

Maybe that's how vampires could bear living like this. 

Maybe that's why Doyoung is so impossibly drawn to him.

"Taeyong," he murmurs. He's not sure if his heart is even beating right now. All he knows is that Taeyong is so close, closer than ever before, and it's burning him alive. "I really like you, you know. I think I have for a while now." 

One, two. Taeyong blinks. "That's…" 

"I'm only saying that because when you touch me like this, it feels like I'm dying," he confesses, and because he's already come this far, "It makes me want to take more of you." 

Doyoung releases his hand and waits for the shame of being so candid to set in. Taeyong folds his hands in his lap.

"What's stopping you?" 

It's Doyoung's turn to be shell shocked now, but he forces himself to get over it, because this is as easy as it's ever going to be. If something or someone wakes him up from this perfect fantasy, he won't be surprised, but for now he wants to indulge himself.

He reaches over to place a hand on Taeyong's waist and runs it up to his chest slowly, feeling the muscles and bones of his thin frame, reverent. Taeyong shifts to accommodate him, legs spreading just wide enough to allow Doyoung space to shuffle over and kneel in between them. 

Because their faces are even closer now, Doyoung tilts his head up so that their noses brush, and he delights in the shiver that runs down Taeyong's spine when he does. His eyes blink open again for a second, peering at Doyoung from behind his lashes, and he nods, almost imperceptible. 

His lips are soft. Neither of them move for a few long moments, but Taeyong isn't pulling away, so he tilts his head and deepens the kiss just enough to show that he means this, he wants this. 

Taeyong lets him take the lead. A hand comes up to the top of Doyoung's spine grabbing lightly at his shirt for purchase, and it feels like every second of his twenty-four years of life were made for this moment. Taeyong sighs softly into his touch, and the sound feels like a jolt of electricity reverberating throughout his whole body and spurring him on. Doyoung adores how he tilts his head to accommodate him when he breaks their lips apart to press butterfly kisses on the corners of his mouth, nosing down to the line of his jaw and the sensitive skin of his throat. Taeyong mewls softly at the contact, pressing his body into Doyoung's and squeezing his arms tighter around his neck. He can feel Taeyong's heart thudding in his chest, falls in love with the way his fingers dig deeper into Doyoung's skin with each kiss.

Doyoung loves this, loves how Taeyong clings to him like he'll drown if he doesn't. He's so sensitive to his touch, and it makes the next words come tumbling out against better judgement. 

"Has no-one ever done this for you, baby?" he whispers into the crook of Taeyong's neck, trying not to lose his mind over his thighs squeezing around Doyoung's waist.

"No, it's not that," Taeyong says breathlessly, a sweet and airy texture in his voice that drives him insane. 

"Then what is it?" 

Taeyong nudges Doyoung's mouth away from his throat to press their foreheads together. His eyes are closed, pretty lashes falling over big eyes that have been haunting him for days. A hand glides up to the back of Doyoung's neck, gripping with just enough pressure to send a message that he wants this just as much as Doyoung does. 

"It's just you," he murmurs, then he reconnects their lips and Doyoung is gone. 

It feels like a momentary death and rebirth when Taeyong pushes lightly at his shoulders and breaks the kiss. Doyoung tries not to stare at his pink lips or flushed cheeks, but it's beyond difficult.

"Doyoung, are you sure you want to do this?" he asks. 

"Why?" He doesn't know what else to call the look on Taeyong's face besides guilt. Why does he feel so much guilt?

"Humans and vampires shouldn't be together," he says meekly. 

"Why?" he asks again. 

He can tell Taeyong regrets the line of conversation he's started, but he pushes forward anyway. He always does. "I can't be sure the attraction you feel to me is real," he starts, cautious. "When vampires feed from humans, they become attached to us. It's almost parasitic, and I...I can't tell you exactly how you're feeling, Doyoung, but it wouldn't be fair to either of us to start a romance if it's not a sincere one. It feels like I'm taking something from you that isn't mine to have."

Doyoung's eyes widen. His mind immediately jumps to his elation at watching Taeyong return from his failed chase, and all of the times in between where he thought he would die if he didn't touch him then and there. 

Part of him too wants to think that he had feelings for him before Taeyong had fed from him, but now he isn't so sure. He doesn't know if his feelings are distorting his memories or the other way around.

Regardless, he comes to a decision on the matter fairly quickly. His feelings haven't been completely rejected, and he fears the pain he'll have to bear if he lets Taeyong go like this. "Taeyong, even if my feelings for you stemmed from something...unsavory, that doesn't make them any less real or true. If we both want each other, why does it matter? Don't you think you deserve to love and be loved?" 

He stares at Doyoung for a moment, then shakes his head slowly. 

"You do, Taeyong. You can't deny yourself your own humanity. I want to love you. Please let me." 

"I don't know how," he murmurs, a confession Doyoung can tell is painful. He's never seen him look so detached, all of the walls around his heart demolished. 

"We can take it slow," Doyoung says. "We don't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with. I just want to show you that you're worth it to me." 

And Taeyong just looks at him like he isn't sure if he believes him, or if he wants to believe him. Doyoung's hand wanders up to his cheek and rests there softly. 

Taeyong's eyes flutter shut at the touch, his own hand coming up to tangle his fingers with Doyoung's, his head tilting ever so slightly into the touch. Then his eyes open, and Doyoung's heart stutters at the pure longing storming behind dark irises.

He's beautiful. Too beautiful to be real, too beautiful for a world this cruel. 

"Then show me," he whispers, and Doyoung doesn't need to be told twice. 

Jaehyun is sipping a mug of something hot when they both enter the parlor. His hair is perfectly styled and his clothes recently ironed. Picturesque as ever.

"Have you checked on Jeno yet?" Taeyong asks without preamble. 

Jaehyun takes it in stride. "I haven't. I thought I would wait for you." 

"Oh. Thank you. I'm glad you did." 

"Did you expect less of me, Taeyongie?" 

Taeyong smiles a small smile. "No, not really. Maybe I should trust you more often." 

Jaehyun returns it. "Only if you want to." 

Taeyong turns to Doyoung then. "Listen. I think it would be best if I talk to Jeno alone. I know you care about him, but two strangers interrogating him might frighten him."

Doyoung understands. He figured Taeyong would be better suited to talking to human trafficking victims, anyway. "Sure. Okay. I'll stay here with Jaehyun."

Taeyong nods, then he's gone. Doyoung takes a seat in his usual loveseat by the window and keeps his eyes cast down even though he knows Jaehyun is currently focused on his sudoku book. 

"You and Taeyong seem close," Jaehyun's voice rumbles, only startling him a little. Maybe the sudoku was just a ploy to let his guard down. Doyoung's hand immediately rises to the light wound Taeyong had bit into the base of his throat the night previous, and he regrets the motion as soon as he sees Jaehyun's eyes follow it with a hawk-like intensity.

"We're, um…" he fumbles. "He's not so bad. We found some common ground." 

"Quite a lot of it, it looks to me," Jaehyun comments mirthfully. Some of the nervousness lifts from Doyoung's chest, but he still gets the feeling like he's being sized up, his worthiness being judged. "Taeyong is a gentle lover, Doyoung. You're lucky to have him." 

Doyoung flushes. Maybe a few weeks ago he would have taken that bait, but somehow he knows better now. Taeyong wouldn't last in a relationship with Jaehyun—they're close, but he wouldn't be able to handle Jaehyun's facades. Even Doyoung can tell that he's a complicated kaleidoscope of a person, and that isn't something Taeyong would want to deal with constantly. 

Maybe it's more than that. Maybe less. But he understands that he has Jaehyun's approval, and for that he's grateful—maybe even relieved. 

About an hour passes in silence after that before Taeyong returns to the parlor. He doesn't look triumphant as much as he looks plain bloodthirsty. 

"Good information, I hope?" Jaehyun asks. Taeyong nods. 

Doyoung doesn't know exactly what he told Jeno, and he doesn't ask, because at this point it's irrelevant. What Taeyong bestows upon them feels like the final step, at last, a visible target that will end this hell they've all been put through.

It's deceptively simple, too—a name, a simple three syllable name that could really belong to anybody—but to Taeyong it's a final waypoint, the beginning of the end. 

"Kim Jungwoo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took a minute i was too busy writing the haechan sequel for it. keep an eye out wink wonk  
> chapter 7 song rec: [kyotonp - 6900000000](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CniSkoogfZs)


	8. INTERLUDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw

Taeyong knew from the moment Doyoung demanded to help him find his friend that he could fall in love with him. 

He could tell by the way Doyoung carries himself, from the way he speaks and interacts with his environment that he thinks himself meek; someone fit to follow authority and nothing more. 

And maybe part of that is true—but not in the way Doyoung thinks it is. A lifetime spent in the throes of The Game has gifted Taeyong with a sharp eye, and he knows that what he possesses above all is self control. He holds himself like a coiled spring, not trusting himself to let loose, keeping himself on a tight leash for his own safety.

Even now he can feel the inhibition dripping from the tongue that licks behind Taeyong's teeth, the stutters in his breath reverberating against his chest where they're pressed close. 

Somehow, he wants to be the person to show him his potential. He wants to see Doyoung wield a blade intent to kill without remorse. He wants to see him demand what he wants and not take no for an answer. 

He wants to see Doyoung stand tall and proud, and then he wants to make him crumble beneath him. He wants him to build up a gilded tower for himself only to break it all down at Taeyong's behest. 

It's an odd urge, one he's never had before. 

It scares him, but in their time together, he's learned that Doyoung makes him feel all kinds of things that are new to him. He loves the way his attention completely zeroes in on Taeyong when they touch, and he hates that he loves it. He loves taking care of him, tending to his wounds and checking up on him when he has time to himself—and at the same time he's infatuated with the way Doyoung has been coming apart at the seams throughout all of this, struggling to get a grip on himself. 

He can't deny that his feelings for Doyoung are far from completely innocent, but they're there, and he's having too much fun to do away with them. That's the best way he can describe it, because in truth, he's not sure why he's kept Doyoung closer than arm's length. 

Maybe this feeling doesn't need a reason. Maybe some things in life don't need justification.

The hand on Taeyong's waist certainly doesn't, massaging the skin just beneath his shirt while his other hand unbuttons it from his chest. His touch is absolutely intoxicating. He wonders what Doyoung would do if he understood the extent of the power he has over him; would he be selfish, or would he give himself over completely? 

He supposes he'll find out in due time. Doyoung is slow to pull his shirt from his body, his eyes drinking in the sight of newly exposed skin. He can see the orange candlelight dancing in the reflection of his eyes, reverent—just how he wants it. It's nice, but his words echo around in Taeyong's mind like background noise. 

He doesn't know what romance is. He's read stories, sure, and he's heard people talk about it, but it's not something he has any experience with. The Game always took that from him. Doyoung is far from the first lover he's had, but what he's offering, what he wants to give Taeyong—he doesn't know what to do with it. 

He can understand the hands Doyoung has on his hips, and he can understand the way the rest of the world dissolves around him when they finally find the perfect rhythm. He slips a hand under his shirt—it's a soft, dark silk from the drawers, big enough to fall over his shoulders loosely, exposing his collarbones. He lets it ride up his waist, onto his back and coming to a rest on his upper spine. He can understand touch well enough. It's a new part of him that wonders if maybe, just maybe, this can be more—that this can be what Doyoung wants them to be.

"Taeyong," Doyoung breathes when they pull apart. Taeyong opens his eyes slowly, a secret wish that will make this moment last longer, that he can stay here in bed forever and never think about anyone else again. There's a tinge of alcohol on his lips now from the wine Jaehyun had brought them earlier. Neither of them had very much, but it was strong. Strong enough to still be on Doyoung's tongue several hours later. 

"What is it?" 

"How far do you want to go?" he says, barely above a whisper. He doesn't want to destroy the moment either. 

Taeyong sits up, resting on his elbows, and looks him in the eye. "How far do you want to go?" 

"I only want to do what you want to do." 

And Taeyong just stares at him softly, wondering what he's going to do with Kim Doyoung. He shakes his head slowly. "Tell me what you want, Doyoung," he says, letting himself fall back onto the bed. "Let go for me. Just this once. I'll feel better that way." 

With anyone else, it would be bait. But Taeyong means it this time. He doesn't know what will happen to them after this—he and Doyoung could just as well go their separate ways and never see each other again. This is the only way their lives can intersect, and it's surrounded by cloak and dagger. 

Even if Doyoung is in over his head, if they're going to do this, Taeyong doesn't want him to leave with any regrets, with what-ifs knocking around his brain worried that he hadn't given enough of himself. 

He still looks unsure, but he knows it's not because of Taeyong. He's fighting himself, wondering if he's allowed to have this, to have Taeyong. He recognizes it as quickly as he recognizes himself in the mirror—because the truth is everyday he wakes up and asks himself the same thing. 

If he can't convince himself of that, he can at least try and convince someone else. He takes one of Doyoung's hands and threads their fingers together. 

"If you really don't want to, Doyoung, you don't have to," Taeyong assures him. "But I want you to feel as safe with me as I do with you." He brings their intertwined hands to rest on his chest, just above his heart. It's beating slowly but with force, like it wants to break free from his chest. Doyoung feels it too, freeing his thumb to rub small circles into the skin there. 

And then, then, Doyoung lets his eyes close and nods. And somehow a piece of Taeyong's heart breaks, because even as genuine as he knows his words are, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to believe them for himself. 

Doyoung is gentle, as he knew he'd be. He thinks he could become obsessed with the way he carefully peels off the rest of his clothes, careful not to jostle him too much and taking care not to damage the fabric too badly. 

When he enters Taeyong he does it slowly, and Taeyong doesn't bother trying to hide the way his legs are trembling with anticipation. Outside, a summer rainshower crashes through the air and a clap of thunder sounds from somewhere up above. Its light illuminates the side of Doyoung's features and, if only for a split moment, all Taeyong can see is pure adoration in his eyes. 

He lets out a soft groan when he bottoms out, and Taeyong takes the opportunity to wrap his legs around his waist. There's an ocean just underneath Doyoung's skin, thrumming through his veins in time with the racing of his heart. He wishes Doyoung could hear himself, wishes he could hear Taeyong the way Taeyong can hear him. He wants Doyoung to experience this kind of closeness with someone. This is probably as close as he'll ever get.

Doyoung is patient. He can feel every inch of him move inside him with each drag, and the pleasure that sings through his body is a low, simmering chorus. Every roll of his hips makes his fingers curl tighter and tighter until he can't stop his own pants from escaping his lips. That's the rhythm they keep for a while, slow and patient. Sometimes Doyoung stops to kiss him, focusing on making Taeyong squirm beneath him while their tongues dance together. He takes his time feeling around every inch of his body, memorizing every hitch in his skin, every dip and curve that nobody else has ever bothered to search for. Taeyong absolutely melts under his touch, and he lets Doyoung know how much he loves it by whining whenever his hands disappear. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he says softly, smiling. His cheeks are flushed peach under the candlelight, breaths coming out harder and harder. "I'll stay with you all night, love." 

The pet name makes him shiver, and he knows Doyoung feels it. 

Taeyong doesn't know what comes over him, but suddenly it's not enough. He pushes against Doyoung's chest lightly, and almost laughs at the look of fear that comes over his face. He's so scared of doing something wrong, of scaring Taeyong away forever. 

He slips out to let Taeyong sit up, at which point he pushes Doyoung so that his back is on the headboard and climbs into his lap. He can't help but kiss him then, his lips slightly parted with shock at Taeyong's antics. 

Doyoung is more muscular than he thought, he realizes while he trails a hand down his toned chest. He feels an arm slide around his waist and pull him close, and this, this is what he wanted; to be enveloped by someone else, held and cherished. Doyoung's kisses become more fevered as Taeyong maps out his body, so he lets his other hand slip lower and lower to get a hand on his cock. 

"Fuck," he breathes into Taeyong's mouth. His hips start jerking up involuntarily, but he doesn't let his grip tighten. He bites lightly at Taeyong's bottom lip in protest, but he doesn't budge. He teases the tip of his cock with a thumb, collecting the precome there and spreading it around the rest of the head. He likes the way Doyoung's muscles tense each time he passes over the slit, and he can tell he's driving him mad. 

He loves that Doyoung is letting him.

Taeyong can't say that he's unaffected though, each of Doyoung's grunts sending electricity through his body. He thinks he could come hands-free just listening to him, but as much as he wants to, that's not how he wants this night to end. 

Doyoung whines when he releases his cock, but he understands immediately when both of Taeyong's hands move to his shoulders and he lifts himself up. 

There are already hands on his hips guiding him carefully back onto Doyoung's cock, and he moans at the sensation of being filled again. He buries his head in the crook of Doyoung's neck, trying to engrave the memory of the feeling in his mind forever. 

Here he can feel Doyoung's pulse thudding at the base of his throat, and he finds himself nosing along the column of his neck while he fucks into him shallowly. Taeyong wraps his arms around his neck when he finds his rhythm again, his grip tightening as he gets closer and closer to his prostate, pleasure points lighting a fire in his stomach. 

He plants wet kisses on Doyoung's neck, which turn into soft nibbles while he tries to stop himself from moaning too loudly. He's probably failing, but he can't exactly tell, because there's a roar of blood in his ears that's drowning out every sensation save for the feeling of Doyoung inside of him, his soft grunts with each thrust of his hips, his heart thudding against his chest. Taeyong feels that familiar hunger clawing from somewhere deep within him, uncontrollable when he's so vulnerable like this, mind and soul bared in the pursuit of love. 

He doesn't want to scare Doyoung away. It's not usually this bad, but he can hardly stop his nostrils from flaring, his nails digging into the top of Doyoung's spine. The mark from last time has all but completely disappeared, a neat bruise that he can still feel when he passes his tongue over it. He shivers at the taste of his skin, and he wants and wants and wants. 

"Taeyong," Doyoung breathes into his ear, his pace not slowing down. Taeyong moans at the sound of his name on Doyoung's lips, digs his claws in deeper. He doesn't want to lose himself, but his mind is going haywire like this. 

"Hmm?' he hums into his collarbone.

"You can if you want to," is all he says, and that's all the permission he needs. 

He licks a few more stripes along his neck, the flat of his tongue leaving a long path of saliva as he searches for the right spot. He doesn't hesitate to sink his teeth in when he finally does, moaning at the metallic tang of blood, stinging like a bolt of electricity throughout his body. 

Things become hazy after that, as they always do. The intoxication heightens his senses tenfold, each slide of Doyoung's cock against his prostate completely burning him up. He drinks what he can with Doyoung starting to move erratically against him, each drop of blood only making the monster inside him demand more.

"More," he begs. "Please, Doyoung, I need more of you." 

Doyoung gives him what he wants. 

He tips Taeyong backwards roughly so that he's on top of him again and starts slamming into him with reckless abandon. Taeyong doesn't bother hiding his cries of pleasure anymore, realizes that he doesn't want to. Doyoung feels so, so good inside of him, hitting his pleasure center with each thrust, no longer holding himself back. The high of feeding from him makes it feel so good that it almost _hurts_ , and he wants Doyoung to know how good he makes him feel, how much he wants this every night from then on. The bed squeaks with each thrust, and Taeyong is just barely able to see the light sheen of sweat highlighted on his shoulder in the candlelight. 

Taeyong brings a hand up to fist his hair as a warning, I'm close, so close, and he almost wants to cry when Doyoung moves to pull out again. He wraps his legs around his waist to keep him close, and they share a look, a single question with an answer they don't need to voice. 

Doyoung comes inside of him with a drawn-out moan, his balls pressed against Taeyong's ass while he fills him up. In his euphoria he's still able to find Taeyong's lips and kiss him, blood mixing with saliva as Taeyong reaches his climax with him. 

They hold each other through their orgasm, feeling the tension in their bodies peak and fade away as the world begins to piece itself back together again. Doyoung doesn't pull out immediately, instead taking his time to kiss Taeyong warmly as the sweat cools from their bodies. 

Doyoung pulls Taeyong into his lap in the tub, running shampoo through his hair meticulously while Taeyong just basks in the feeling. His eyes shut while Doyoung massages his scalp, and in the dark he can feel ghost touches of hands roaming his torso, his memories completely intoxicated by one person. There's an aftertaste of blood still present on the back of his tongue. He tries to savor it for as long as he can. 

If he listens closely, he can hear the low rush of blood through Doyoung's body, his heart returning to its natural rhythm. It's a meaningless sentiment, but Taeyong takes slow breaths to slow his own pulse in an attempt to match his, to return to that closeness they had shared in bed not long ago. 

There are no words exchanged between them; they're not necessary. They understand that their time together is drawing to a close, that soon the moon will rise again and they'll be thrown back to the wolves to fend for themselves. 

They don't need to worry about that now. Instead Taeyong steals kisses from him whenever he gets to missing the feeling, which is often enough, and Doyoung returns them with as much affection as he can muster. He still doesn't think he deserves it, but he wants to drown in everything Doyoung wants to give him. 

Taeyong falls asleep in his arms once they're cleaned up, Doyoung's breaths tickling his scalp where his head is tucked into his chest. He dreams of a lifetime where Doyoung is always by his side, hands clasped together while life takes them where it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 8 song rec: [tamino - habibi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zznlf3ZKQi0)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know honestly sorry if these come out like...kind of unfinished? im the only person betaing this and im sort of impatient and i also can't read. i'll be like "hey @ me remember to go back and add the thing" and im like ok word then i forget to go back and add the thing then i post it then like 2 weeks later im like oh fuck i forgot a plot point. please bear with me kudasai!! or like if something doens't add up use ur imagination lmao

Lucas' home is nearly imperceptible under the moonless sky, a dark rectangular mass in the distance that Yuta can only just barely make out against the deep navy skyline. 

There's a gentle light coming from the inside though, so Yuta knows he's still awake. He feels like a younger version of himself as he steps through the stiff grass up to his door, and for some reason he doesn't even know where to begin comprehending, he gets the ghost of a feeling of someone there beside him—maybe a hand on his shoulder or an encouraging look in his direction, something warm and guarding. He stands and stares at the base of the door to try and soak it in, because he doesn't know where it's come from but god has it been so long since he's felt this young, this foolish, this hopeless, and if his brain wants to conjure up some kind of supportive figure to help get him through whatever stage of life this is, he isn't going to deny himself the fantasy. 

Yuta closes his eyes and takes in a breath. The night isn't a silent one. The occasional gentle thump of hooves on dirt and the creaking of their pen's fencing rides on the gentle breeze to reach his ears, and it's nice. Calm. Not something he deserves. 

Suddenly, briefly, an image of a person flashes in his mind just as he's about to break his reverie and knock on the door. It's someone he hasn't thought about in a long, long time, but Yuta has never forgotten the face of his father. As quickly as it comes, it contorts into the haunting face of Kim Junmyeon, and then the warmth is gone altogether. 

Yuta doesn't need to dawdle any longer. He's done enough of that for a lifetime. 

Lucas answers in a timely manner when he knocks, a small lantern held in front of him illuminating his features. Its light catches on the edges of his ears, ears that stick out in the exact same way Chanyeol's used to when he'd stay up late writing those letters. For a second Yuta is rendered speechless at the image of his old blood brother, but he dashes the memory just like he dashes all of the other ones. 

"Hi there," Yuta begins. "I know I'm probably not a face you ever wanted to see again, but I wanted to return this to you." He holds up Yixing's book of pressed flowers to show him. He may not have left a good impression on Lucas, but he at least made it a point to take care of the book while he had it. He can appreciate a longstanding memento such as this one for what it's worth. 

Lucas takes it with his free hand, casting Yuta a look that isn't exactly skeptical, but it's far from disdainful. He inspects the back and the front for any obvious damages. 

"Why did you take it?" Lucas' eyes are wide and full with such pure curiosity that Yuta thinks he'd be a lot more comfortable if he had just taken it and slammed the door in his face like he probably deserves. 

Yuta rubs the back of his calf with one foot nervously. He doesn't really have very much else to lose. "Someone I love is dying," he starts. "Chanyeol and Yixing's work were as close as I could get to figuring out what's wrong with him, or at least how I can cure him." There's a pause, Lucas not breaking eye contact for a moment, and Yuta knows all too well that silence can be a powerful weapon. He decides that he can bear not being the one on top all the time, if only just this once. "The book didn't get me to where I needed to be, though. So I figured I'd return it to someone who...who it meant more to, anyway." 

It's not a confession he'd normally make, but if this is where he wants to practice coming out from all the cloak and dagger, it's about as painless as it gets. 

Lucas just eyes him for a few moments. Yuta honestly can't really tell if there's anything going on behind dark eyes, but his gaze suddenly softens and he opens the door wider to let Yuta inside. Eyes wide with surprise, Yuta follows him. 

His home looks just as it did before—warm, rustic, inviting. He motions for him to take a seat on a couch while he disappears into the kitchen, returning a short time later with a mug of tea. Yuta breathes in the steam—it's milk thistle. Chanyeol always liked milk thistle.

"It's all he would ever drink," Lucas comments with a smile, and it takes Yuta a moment to realize he had spoken out loud. "I hated it for the longest time, but it grew on me a little after he passed." 

Yuta relates to that more than he thinks even himself knows. He glances over his mug to look at Lucas settling into his own wicker chair across from him, and it occurs to him that even though he and Chanyeol don't share an actual linear relation, they sort of resemble each other in the overgrown puppy kind of way. That combined with the milk thistle tea, Yuta startles inwardly at how far someone's history can stretch into the future. Chanyeol is always going to live in their minds, and even if they forget him from time to time, his habits, quirks of character, or little anecdotes he may have shared in the past are going to stick to their person from now until the end of time. 

They'll always be alive in that way. With Chanyeol, it's a comforting thought. With other people, not so much.

But maybe, just maybe, Yuta's allowed to twist some of the unbearable things into good things. 

If it makes living easier, who can shame him for that?

"Yuta-ssi. I may not know who you are or much about your relationship with Chanyeol or Yixing, but I knew from the moment we first met that your heart is heavy," Lucas begins. His voice is oddly meditative, and Yuta finds himself wanting to latch onto it. "You said you thought that Chanyeol-hyung and Yixing-hyung's work could help you. They're long gone now, and much of their work was stolen or destroyed. I don't know what I can do to help you, but you must know that the hyungs always had open hearts. It wouldn't be right of me to let you go knowing you're hurting." He pauses to take a drink from his own mug, then continues.

"Have you heard of the Hippocratic Oath, Yuta-ssi?" 

Yuta had dipped his toes in a formal education during his time with the humans, and though the words are familiar, that's all they are to him—words. He shakes his head. 

"It's an oath, a promise that doctors in the west make. They promise to do no harm, to share their knowledge and to protect the environment that sustains them, among other things. Chanyeol used to talk about it all the time—'Does it adhere to the Oath, Lucas?' in response to anything I'd ask him, as if the entirety of the human condition can be compartmentalized into a couple lines of greek and a raised hand." 

His eyes stray off somewhere to the side and he smiles again, recalling a memory that must be fond. He sips from his drink again. 

"It annoyed me back then, but I realized, Yuta-ssi, that those simple tenets can be applied to a lot of things if you're willing to stretch the meaning. I don't have a lot here with me, as you can tell. I live a simple life. But I want to help people, and a lot of times I find that just putting your thoughts out in the open can be rather therapeutic." Then Lucas leans back into his chair, folding one leg over the other with his mug held in both hands. "So tell me what's weighing you down, Yuta-ssi." 

And Yuta does. 

Talking about Taeil is the easiest. Since it's most recent, he talks about how Taeil collapsed at Jongin's childhood home—did Chanyeol ever mention Jongin to you?—and since Yuta couldn't carry him all the way back to the main shore to get help, he had to leave him there and find someone who could. He doesn't mention how more than one mothers with their children quickly herded them away when they saw him approaching with his parasol, a telltale sign of someone's vampirism, but it was just a passing detail. 

It was harder to get Taeil out of the hospital after that, considering he has no insurance and doesn't know any of his social security information. Yuta gives them a fake name on reflex, and it's a whole spectacle after that. He had wound up just sneaking him out when they had deemed him stable, fleeing to the nearest bus that would drop them on the outskirts of the city. 

Yuta has taken Taeil to human doctors before, under cover of night and without disclosing any more information than he needed to. He's seen what Seoul authorities do to vampire covens that harbor humans, and needless to say he isn't willing to put Taeil at risk for something that was a mutual choice. Vampires will always be painted the villain in any scenario. He's learned that in more ways than one. 

Regardless, they couldn't help him. No physician, specialist, or homeopathy office could figure out what ails Taeil, or how to fix it beyond temporarily alleviating his symptoms. Lucas nods gravely when he tells him this, a sorrow expression fixed onto his face. 

Yuta hasn't been pitied in a long time. Somehow, it's comforting. 

He doesn't only talk about Taeil's sickness. He talks about his gentleness, his sweetness, how his love was the only thing that keeps Yuta going some days. How fond Renjun and the others are of him, how even though he's had a hard life, there isn't a bone in his body that could ever hate anyone or anything. How Yuta admires him as much as he relies on him. He talks about their most recent episode at the beach house in Incheon, how he had shrouded himself in an abandoned coat and carried Taeil back to civilization while listening to the stuttering of his pulse all the way. 

When he's done talking, Lucas is back to examining him closely. Yuta waits expectantly.

"I see," says Lucas. "Chanyeol would have respected people like you, you know. Driven by love over greed." 

Tears prick from behind his eyes, but Yuta holds them back. He had given up expecting Chanyeol's grace decades ago. 

"But," he continues, "I think I understand now. And I think I may be able to help you and your beloved."

The laboratory isn't as much a laboratory as much as what looks to be some kind of abandoned industrial facility. It's relatively modern, definitely from the last thirty years, at least, complete with walls that must have been a clean white at some point, a myriad of intersecting halls, and rusted iron doors. Though most of the fluorescent lights are off, in some rooms they flicker ominously, clinging to what last bit of life they can.

Yuta peers into a room with a shattered window. There's some kind of animal nest tucked underneath a gurney, and when he tries the door he finds it impossible to budge.

"You probably don't want to go in there," Lucas warns lightly. 

The walls seem to swallow their footsteps as they move through the halls. Yuta wonders what it must be like to be a ghost trapped in a place like this. 

Lucas leads him up a wide staircase with a stairwell emitting a heavy smell of rust—not the kind Yuta is used to, either. This is pure decay, and he feels like each step will collapse under his weight at any moment. 

The upper level houses a kind of office area, this one with tall windows that let in light at nearly every angle. Vines have crawled up and flourished in the cracks in the cement and the ceiling pipes that were never hidden with panels. Leaves from a nearby tree trickle into the room on the breeze, and it's beautiful in a way—watching nature take back what was once hers. 

It's pretty, but that isn't what he's here for. He grabs Lucas' arm to stop him in his tracks and puts on a serious expression. "I trust you, Lucas, but you said you could help Taeil. Why did you bring me here?" He gestures to the dilapidation before them. "If you came here to kill me for knowing too much, you should've done it way earlier." 

Lucas tilts his head like a confused puppy, one Yuta wouldn't mind kicking. "I'm not here to betray you, Yuta-ssi," he says. "This was the last place I saw Yixing-hyung and Chanyeol-hyung at the same time. The trail is old, but it's the only place I know to pick up where they had left off. After Yixing-hyung fell sick, this is where he spent most of his time." 

That piques his interest, and he can only find sincerity in Lucas' eyes. "Sick?" he questions. "Was he not a vampire?"

In addition tot he head tilt, now his brows furrow. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Yixing died a human," Lucas reveals. "The hyungs—do you know what the main crux of Chanyeol and Yixing's research was?" 

Yuta shakes his head. He feels like he should, but he doesn't. He knows he's not completely to blame though. Chanyeol could be frustratingly hard to reach when he wanted to be. 

"They wanted to find a way to undo the curse," Lucas tells him, and Yuta's eyes widen. 

Reversing one's vampirism was as mythical an idea as heaven or hell, fate and destiny. From the stories Junmyeon told him, all of the vampires who tried to restore their humanity ended up killing themselves in the process—whether this was intentional or not is up to interpretation. 

Regardless, he's shocked that that had been the subject of Chanyeol's research—quiet, wholly empirical Chanyeol, who lived his entire unlife within the rigid lines of science and academia, spending the last decades of his life searching for a way to undo it all. 

"And if Yixing died a human, that means…" 

But Lucas shakes his head. "I know I said Yixing died a human, but it wasn't that simple," he says. "The serum they made...it wasn't perfect. Its side effects were debilitating, if you happened to live after it was administered. Most didn't. It's what they fought over. They just kept arguing and arguing about the best way to use it, and if it was worth it until…"

He freezes at the edge of his sentence, apparently realizing he exposed more of their life than he meant to. Yuta raises his eyebrows. "Until?" 

He shrugs again, regaining a bit of composure. Then he smiles a bitter smile. "It's history now, Yuta-ssi. I'm sure you didn't come here to hear about the intricacies of their relationship." 

Yuta finds it interesting that Lucas wants to keep Chanyeol and Yixing's history a secret. Whether he's defending his own feelings or Chanyeol's right to privacy, he doesn't know. 

Lucas is rather easy to talk with though, seemingly completely uninterested in the Game, which is why Yuta asks what he does next. "If I pressed, would you tell me?" 

Another question, another shrug. "I think you'll end up finding out on your own regardless. The ghosts in this place haunt anyone that comes through here." The last part comes out as an afterthought, something Yuta wasn't meant to hear. 

They push onward. As he had surmised from the outside, the upper level of the main building is collapsed in on one side, leaving the entire room exposed to the outside air. He can somewhat put together the image of an office area, or maybe some kind of atrium or roof garden that may have once been here. 

There are rows of lockers to one side, some of them hung open and others closed shut tightly. Yuta picks a random one to peek into, and he finds an old tray of sharp medical tools, rusted and forgotten. 

"How did you meet Chanyeol, Lucas-ssi?" Yuta asks while he frisks every locker and desk drawer and cabinet that will open. Lucas is sitting on top of an old desk that's bolted to the ground watching him. 

"They had put out an ad for a medical assistant," Lucas recounts. "I was pre-med at the time. I wanted to be a surgeon. I figured a little experience on the side would put me ahead of my peers, you know?" 

Maybe Lucas has played his own safer version of the Game, Yuta thinks. 

"They never told me Chanyeol was a vampire, and I never asked. Vampires only bare their fangs so often, so it took me a while to realize it. But by the time I did, I was already too invested in their work to drop it cold turkey." 

"What kind of work did they have you do?" Yuta asks, genuinely curious. 

"Oh, you know, this and that," Lucas waves a hand. "Administering anaesthetic to patients, cleaning up after them, organizing their documents. Anything they needed a hand with, really."

"Patients," Yuta repeats. 

Lucas doesn't answer for a few moments, and Yuta finds him smiling that dopey smile when he turns back to look at him. 

"I don't know what else to call them," he admits mirthfully. "The hyungs called them patients. They were never willing to come here, or they didn't exactly have a choice. It didn't really matter." 

The confession informs Yuta that Lucas knew what he was doing wasn't anything particularly savory, yet he chose to stay anyway. He can't really imagine Lucas hurting a fly. 

Something silver catches his eye in the space underneath a desk, buried under a pile of dead leaves. He nudges it out with his foot and finds its a spiral notebook. 

"Did it ever scare you?" There's something engraved on the cover, but it's too dirty to make out. He flips it open carefully to find pages and pages of very small, very neat handwriting. 

At the question, Lucas giggles. "No, it never scared me. I thought it was exciting."

No wonder Chanyeol turned him, Yuta thinks. 

Closing the journal, he brings it to where Lucas is sitting and holds it out for him. "Know anything about this?" 

Lucas purses his lips and takes it from him. He doesn't recognize the journal, but when he flips open the cover, his eyes widen. 

"This...why would they leave this behind?" He flips through the papers in the folder frantically, brows furrowing. "Could they have forgotten it?"

"What is it?" Yuta urges. He knows better than to get his hopes up, but his heartbeat picks up against his will. 

"One of their first drafts. I helped write this, but I don't know…" he trails off, flipping through the loose paper frantically until he freezes, apparently finding what he's looking for. "It is. It's all here." 

Yuta leans into his space to see what it is he's looking at. He recognizes Chanyeol's handwriting immediately, just as prim and flowery as it had been all those years ago. From what he can understand, it's a series of trial results. 

_PATIENT 007-2_

__

__

STATUS: HUMAN

ADMINISTERED: 10mg

_RESULT: After approx. 2.5 hours, 007-2 developed a high fever that continued to rise throughout the rest of their trial. After approx. 3 hours, 007-2 began to experience symptoms of delirium as well as graying skin around the fingernails, lips, and under their eyes. I would have deemed this a failure at this point, but at Yixing's behest we continued to monitor 007-2 for the remainder of the trial._

_007-2 expired after approx. 7 hours. Mechanism of death is still uncertain, however their death was far less violent than the others._

All of the pages after that read similarly; unnamed patients both human and vampire being given varying dosages of something with Chanyeol and occasionally Yixing's commentary on the effects afterward. 

Nearly all of the patients die. As Chanyeol had noted, some are more violent than others. His observations describe them going into a frenzy or kill-thirsty haze that requires them to be put down, while others are gripped with a borderline demonic obsession with self mutilation, bringing death upon themselves in what Yuta can only imagine was liberation from whatever horrors they were possessed with. 

"Lucas...what is this?" he asks after drinking in the tenth report, each one more harrowing than the last. He doesn't really know why he even asks—he understands depravity when he sees it. This is borderline torture. He isn't sure if this is a playing field he's equipped to traverse. 

"Their life's work," Lucas tells him. "Yixing may very well have been the first vampire to regain his humanity, but it was at the cost of dozens, maybe even hundreds of lives." He takes the folder from Yuta's grasp gently, flipping to a section towards the end. "Not just that, but the serum they made had a side effect. It grants a kind of immunity to all diseases—the ones the hyungs tried, anyway. I don't know what ails your loved one, but this just might be what you're looking for. If you're willing to take the risk."

"I am," Yuta says immediately. "I'll do anything. I'm out of options here, Lucas-ssi." 

But Lucas shakes his head, disappointed. "Yuta-ssi, above all else, the hyungs were adamant that their research was kept under wraps," he begins, and Yuta thinks he knows where this is going. "They made great strides in trying to undo the curse, they really did. But they understood the chaos it would cause if their research was to get out. Ancient covens would be uprooted, society—our society—would fall apart." he pauses, clearly trying to work out his thoughts. "Is that really something you want to be responsible for? Just for a single person?" 

_Our lives are long, Yuta, nearly infinite,_ Baekhyun's words from another life echo through his memories and reach him in the present. But he's not going to sit idle anymore. He understands that it's supposed to be a poignant question, one that's supposed to stop and make him think. But he already had an answer before the question was even asked.

"I don't care about our society," he asserts. "I haven't cared about our society in a long, long time. I only care about Taeil. If he dies, Lucas-ssi, then I'm—I'm nothing. I don't care what I have to do. Come with me, burn the trial documents after, make me swear secrecy. I don't care. I can't care. Taeil has to live." This is all he has now; his heart as a weapon, honesty his shield. 

Lucas looks incredulous, and he's worried it's not enough. He's willing to beg, but then, then.

"The hyungs never wrote down how to make the serum," he tells him. "But I remember. I can tell you what I know. I can help you."

Back at the hangar, there's rustling by his old car. He approaches the dark figure, but there's something familiar about its form that keeps him from drawing a weapon. He clears his throat loudly and the person jumps, backing away from where he's leaning into one window and adopting an aggressive stance.

They stare at each other for some long moments before Ten breaks into a huge smile and he sighs with relief. 

"It's you!" 

"Sure is," Yuta says, eyeing the pliers in his hand. He'll be damned if he lets anyone hotwire his car.

But that's an afterthought. The lighting isn't very good, but he can see that Ten has aged much since he last saw him—in a good way, though. His jawline has become more chiseled, and his shoulders are broader. He holds himself differently now too. Above all he comes across as confident and...happy, Yuta would almost venture. Something near it, anyway. The rhythm of his heartbeat is exactly the same as it had been all those years ago. "You're still human." 

"Indeed I am. Surprised?" They're within a few feet of each other now, and Ten looks just as taken aback as Yuta feels.

"No, not really." Ten has a turbulent nature. He and surprises come part and parcel. "But still, wow. I haven't seen you since…" 

"Osaka, right?" 

Right. After Junmyeon died, his home—his first home—was the only place he could think of. He had met Ten at the ship's dock, vaguely amused at his attempt at pickpocketing—as if Yuta had taken anything of value with him. 

Regardless, Ten was fluent enough in Japanese to help get him around, and in exchange Yuta taught him a thing or two about blade wielding. They stuck together for a year or two until Yuta decided that try as he might to convince himself otherwise, his home was in South Korea. 

"Right," he agrees, dredging up a memory that had been long buried. Standing alone at the docks, staring out at the endless expanse of ocean and wondering where the wind would take him this time. Where it had taken Ten, Baekhyun, Chanyeol. "You just up and left." 

Ten flushes a little as a guilty look crosses his expression. "Yeah...hey, I'm sorry for that, you know. There was this company that had recruited me. It seemed too good a chance to pass up, but I had to keep it from you—and they knew, they always knew, so I couldn't tell you about it. That day when you decided you were going, I just thought it'd be easier for you to go with no strings attached. You know?" 

And now Yuta suddenly sees him differently—Ten isn't all that much younger than Yuta was when he was turned, but he's leagues wiser than Yuta had been. Pride warms his chest and he doesn't suppress the small smile that comes across his face. "I guess I taught you something after all." 

"Never leave a trace," Ten laughs, repeating the old adage that Yuta had drilled into his mind, the same one Junmyeon had used on him. "That's over now, though. It got to be too much, now. I'm looking at my other options." He gestures at the car, at the hangar. "I can't believe I found you here, of all places." 

Yuta's smile widens. Ten is quick-witted and intelligent—and, as he admitted, a human. He'd succeed with a normal life. "Yeah, have been for a while now. I've been doing okay. I'm glad to see you in good spirits, too." 

Ten smiles at him, a genuine one that makes Yuta think that no matter what, maybe things will be alright. Ten always had that effect on people. "Nice scar, by the way. Who gave it to you?" 

Ten brightens. "Thank you!" he coos. "I hated it at first, but I think it's grown on me. Have you ever heard of a Liu Yangyang? Swear, he talks too much for his own good. I think my partner managed to take him out, though." 

Yuta freezes, his smile dropping in an instant. Logos catches up to his mind before ethos, and there's already a clear image in his mind of what comes next. "Yangyang is dead," he asks, but it comes out monotone. 

Ten doesn't seem to pick up on his shift in mood. "Well, probably. Did you know him? My partner and I had split up by then, so I don't know exactly what went down, but there were a couple explosions, and you know…" 

"I see," says Yuta. Of course. Casualties, casualties—they were always a risk. Especially where Jaehyun is concerned. A year or two ago Yuta wouldn't have dwelled on it, but things are different now. Xiaojun, Taeil, all the others—they'll be upset. No, Yuta can't let this go. He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to. "What did you say your partner's name was again?" 

"Kim Jungwoo," Ten gives. "Honestly, we're not partners anymore. He was off his rockers." 

That's it, then. He has time before Lucas comes. One more chore to take care of before this can be over for good. 

"Where can I find Kim Jungwoo?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter..what chapter is this. idk. song rec: [nick rattigan - prom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iniFtWFRydo)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/sputnikmp3) [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/sputnikmp3)


	10. Chapter 10

Once again, Doyoung finds Taeyong out in the garden. Tonight is particularly warm, the heavy air sticking to his skin saturated with the bitter aroma of the surrounding woodland. He's sitting cross-legged at the water's edge, watching two waterbugs skirt around each other on the surface. The water just barely dips under their weight. Taeyong turns his head sharply when Doyoung takes a seat beside him in the grass and he finds it difficult to believe Taeyong hadn't sensed his presence on the way here. Regardless, his eyes soften quickly when he sees who it is. He scoots just a few notches closer to him, barely anything noticable if Doyoung wasn't so sensitive to every move he makes, the exact tone of his voice in every word that escapes past his lips. 

"Hey," Doyoung says softly. "What are you doing out here?'

Taeyong glances back at the waterbugs and shrugs. "Thinking." 

"What about?" 

He doesn't answer immediately, twirling a considerate finger in the grass. "Lots of things," he says eventually. "Mostly me. My life. How I got here." His smile fades from his face at that, gaze returning to the calm of the water. 

"Are you okay?" Doyoung asks, and he doesn't even care if it's the third time he's broken his promise, because he cares, and he wants to let Taeyong know he does. 

Taeyong breathes a laugh, crinkles coming up around his eyes in a way that makes Doyoung's heart soften impossibly further. "I think I will be, someday." 

Doyoung reaches out to take his hand, brings his fingers up to his lips and plants a kiss on the top of each one. 

"I shouldn't like you as much as I do," Taeyong says quietly, then he looks surprised at his own confession. The light from beneath the pond only illuminates half his face, and on his cheeks Doyoung can see a faint blush. He bends his hand forward to kiss the back of it, like a prince deserves. 

"Why?" he asks, but Doyoung feels the same way. There's no reason Taeyong should have as much of an effect on him as he does, and yet. 

"I already told you," Taeyong murmurs. "This isn't...natural. It's dangerous to fall this hard this quickly for someone." 

"So?" Doyoung finds himself asking. "So what if we're falling a billion miles an hour headfirst? We can just see where it takes us. It's okay if we get hurt." 

"I didn't fall in love with you because of your recklessness, Kim Doyoung," Taeyong laughs. He intertwines their fingers together and a new emotion implodes in Doyoung's chest, something warm with thick roots that extend to the deepest cavity of his heart. 

_Lee Taeyong is going to be the death of me,_ he thinks, but he already accepted his fate way back at the chateau. If Taeyong is going to tear his heart out of his chest and watch him bleed out by the end of this, he's going to at least enjoy the time it takes to get to that point. 

"So why did you fall in love with me?" he whispers. It's not supposed to be a tease, but the smile Taeyong gives him is full of mischief. He brings a hand up to cup Doyoung's cheek, palm engulfing his scar completely while a thumb ghosts over his bottom lip. He leans in to connect their lips, and Doyoung doesn't understand how he can drown in a kiss as patient and shallow as this. Taeyong's hand doesn't leave him when they part, sliding up into his hair and caressing his scalp softly. 

"Your gentleness," he tells Doyoung. "Your warmth. I feel safe when I'm with you." 

There's no way Taeyong doesn't hear the way his heart stutters before it kicks into high gear at that. He goes in for a kiss again, and revels in the way Taeyong squeals with delight when their lips meet. Doyoung plants a hand in the grass on the other side of him, hovering over Taeyong while he tries to breathe in every bit of him that he can. 

_How long until I can love you completely,_ he wonders. He's no stranger to falling in love, even if he's never felt anything quite as addicting as this—but he can't help but slip into the fantasy of being Taeyong's lifetime sweetheart whenever his mind wanders, something more than just this bubblegum-and-kittens romance they've both fallen into. He wants his name engraved on Taeyong's heart, wants to witness him when he's at his worst and live to tell the tale. 

Doyoung doesn't know what comes after this and he doesn't want to think about it. Taeyong snakes both of his arms around his neck, and he takes the opportunity to tilt his head and deepen the kiss, shivering as their tongues brush together and Taeyong's mouth opens for him, only him.

Light from the pool is reflected in wide eyes when they pull apart, lips pink and flushed and Taeyong is so, so beautiful, too ethereal for the cruelty of this world.

"I wouldn't have let you come with me if I knew it would get this bad," Taeyong breathes, and a portion of the spell is broken. Doyoung's brows furrow.

"What do you mean?" 

"I can see the horror in your eyes, my love," he murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle against his cheek, seeking contact. Doyoung pulls him closer without a second thought. "They keep you up at night. You don't sleep." 

Taeyong's shrewdness doesn't surprise him. Maybe if they had happened a few months earlier, Doyoung would have said something like _If it allowed us to meet, it's worth it,_ but he doesn't know if it's the truth. What he does know is that it doesn't matter though, because he can't go back and change the past. He's hurting, and he has Taeyong with him. 

So, all he can do is shrug. "I guess that's just the way this all turned out, then." 

Taeyong lets his eyes flutter shut and presses himself closer to Doyoung. 

"I guess so."

That's about all the reprieve they get. Doyoung understands they have to move quickly after that, because Jungwoo probably knows he's being hunted at this point. He's used to being the chaser by now, but he doesn't know what kind of resources the House of Repose has at its disposal. Jungwoo could very well catch them off guard and end them both. 

Doyoung is close to asking Taeyong to finish this alone, because he doesn't want to be a burden. But Taeyong seems to read his mind. 

"You have to see this through just as much as I do," were his words to him. The fog surrounding everything made it difficult for him to decide if they had any merit. 

Jaehyun had told them that if Jungwoo were fleeing, there's only one place he'd be going. At the stables is an empty post that Jaehyun eyes for just a few moments too long before he moves on, endowing them with a stocky [strawberry roan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxXulNye0So) that seems to regard them with kind, forgiving eyes. Doyoung remembers the stallion-shaped mass of darkness that had first taken them to Jaehyun's manor and realizes that it's missing. 

"Go north," Jaehyun tells them. "The path might be difficult to spot, so you need to be careful." He describes the mouth of an old, old cave at the base of a mountain range, a place almost nobody remembers now. He sees them off with a wave and a grim face that makes Doyoung feel uneasy. But Taeyong trusts him, so Doyoung does, too. As the manor disappears in the wake of an ocean of trees, he thinks about Donghyuck and whether or not he'll see him again after all, wonders how many people in his life have broken a promise to him, if he's strong enough to handle one more.

Taeyong guides the horse confidently, so Doyoung assumes he knows where they're going. They move at a brisk pace until the woods thin out into a long, empty field that seems to stretch into the horizon endlessly, at which point he kicks the horse into a gallop and Doyoung has to squeeze his arms tighter around Taeyong's waist to hold on. 

It's far from anything comfortable or romantic. The wind that blows past him is bitter with the smell of greenery, and every once in a while he thinks he picks up the smell of burning wood. Even as the open air embraces them, the constant trill of summer cicadas rides chases them through the breeze for the entirety of their journey until they're just several steps into a cavern and they seem to die out suddenly and all at once. 

It's dark. He can hear Taeyong scuffing around with his feet until he makes contact with something on the stone ground. With the strike of a match a fire springs up in its glass container, and he hands the lantern to Doyoung so he can guide the horse freely. 

"Do we want to take her in here?" he asks. The light from the lantern illuminates a dark, dusty emptiness before them, and some kind of fatigue seems to invade his senses. 

"It's wide enough," Taeyong tells him. "Plus, look. There are other hoofprints here." 

There are, when Doyoung casts his eyes down. Small crescent-shaped dust dunes pile up at the heel of each print, as if they had been moving at something more than a trot. Neither of them are too keen on the idea of riding a horse in such an enclosed space, but they go as fast as they can. She's difficult to manage in the beginning, jerking to-and-fro, fearing something in the dark neither of them can see even with the small bit of light they have.

The hoof tracks are consistent all the way through, and for once the cavern doesn't seem to lose elevation; it's a straight shot from one side of the mountain to the other, and he's grateful to be out of it unscathed; physically, anyway. Neither of them had drawn attention to the handprints on the walls or the way the inconsistencies in the stone seemed to, at certain angles, resemble faces or other body parts. Doyoung has never been especially superstitious, but this feels like they're treading ground that should be left undisturbed.

Nonetheless, they press on for what seems like forever until they're freed from the cradle of stone. The landscape they're met with is almost an exact copy of the one they entered from, and Taeyong's brows are furrowed. 

"The tracks continue this way," he points out, "But this isn't the path Jaehyun thought Jungwoo would take." 

"Jaehyun can't know everything," Doyoung says. "Does it really matter?" 

"No," is Taeyong's answer, and then they're off again keeping a close eye on the imprints in the ground. 

The earth turns hilly, and at the top of a particularly high plateau Doyoung can see the soft glow of the sun slowly making its ascent into the sky. 

"He'll be stopping soon," says Taeyong, admiring the gentle light. 

"Can we catch up to him before then?" 

"I don't know." 

The horse moves steadily down the hill, loose gravel falling ahead of them causing a small dust cloud to form at the bottom. When they get there, there's a long strip of earth that looks well-traveled; and a ways in the distance it splits into two. 

What's more, though, is that there's a pool of tracks right beneath their feet that don't seem to go anywhere else. Intuition tells them both to draw their weapons, and they do so at the same time. The roan wanders off to a patch of tall grass a short ways down the path. Everything seems to fall terribly quiet; even Doyoung's heart seems to be quelled, its own up and downbeats coming in slow motion. 

He steps slowly around the bend of the hillside, far enough for Taeyong to be completely out of view while he investigates the other side. He takes care not to step on any dry patch of bracken, but the angle the sun is coming up drenches everything in shadow. 

Something tall and dark comes into view, and in the seconds after his heart leaps to his throat he realizes it's a living creature. It rears its head up from the ground to look at him, dry grass aching underfoot. The horse doesn't appear to be bound to anything, its reins draping down obediently on either side of its head. What's off is that though it's a fully bridled horse, its rider is nowhere to be found. Doyoung makes his way back to the bottom of his hill as quickly as he can without making a ruckus. 

It's just as he's coming around the bend that he picks up the sound of agitated scuffling, and he races towards it without a second thought. 

With the rising sun, the glint of flawless metal in the newborn light is unmistakable; also unmistakable is the liquid dripping down Taeyong's neck, long smooth strokes forming a river down his arm and drenching the fabric. Blood bubbles out angrily through the gaps in the fingers gripping his throat tightly, and Doyoung can see the grip on his sword weakening as his face contorts with pain. 

Each millisecond that passes by causes the light behind Taeyong's form to grow, and his shadow stretches out before him, landing at the feet of a stranger with his back turned to Doyoung. He's unscathed from what he can tell, and his bright red hair seems to take in all of the looming sunlight, blinding. 

Taeyong glances at his earthbound silhouette, up at Doyoung, then back to his assailant. There's a fresh layer of sweat forming on his brow, and Doyoung understands. 

Jungwoo hasn't noticed him yet. His shadow isn't there to give him away. 

"You don't know what you have," Jungwoo is saying. "Without Qian Kun, you're free to rule at your own jurisdiction; believe me when I say that I truly can't understand why I'm your first priority." 

"I don't care what you can or can't understand," Taeyong fights to get out, but his body apparently can't take it and the machete clatters to the ground. His breathing is ragged, but he goes on; "You don't know what you took from me."

Jungwoo shrugs. "Sure I do," he says nonchalantly. He moves to close the gap between them, giving Taeyong a light shove that sends him toppling over to the ground easily. "You're not the first person to hunt me down. I've killed people more innocent than your king." 

Taeyong doesn't respond, unable to with the mix of spittle and blood slowly choking him. Still, his eyes are wide open and furious, all of the life in hi sbody concentrated in wide, dark eyes. He seems to have forgotten Doyoung completely. Jungwoo doesn't say anything more, seemingly content to watch Taeyong writhe in the dirt.

After this, there isn't going to be another opportunity. Doyoung takes a breath and rockets himself forward, using all of his weight to ram into Jungwoo's side before he has time to evade. Jungwoo collides with the ground with a surprised shout, losing his grip on his dagger on the way down. Doyoung kicks it away before digging the heel of his beet down into Jungwoo's wrist, flinching internally at the crunch that sounds from within, and driving his own dagger into Jungwoo's other forearm. He cries with pain, something hoarse and awful, and Doyoung feels a little part of him die. 

He rips the dagger out of his arm anyway, baring his teeth with the effort, and apparently Jungwoo still has more bark left in him. 

"A human," he croaks out, and for the first time in Doyoung's life, he's self-conscious about the lack of extended canines hidden behind his lips. "A human out for a vampire's blood. Some things never change." 

Doyoung grips him by the hair and smashes his head into the dirt. Jungwoo bites his tongue, and blood begins to dribble out from his mouth, but he keeps talking; 

"You probably feel like you have the high ground here, don't you?" Jungwoo says. "Just because you aren't cursed like us? Who do you think we adopted this greed from, this insatiable hunger? Do you think we like living like this? Do you think your people never had a hand in creating us _monsters?"_ Jungwoo's eyes shut for a moment, harsh breaths coming out and the reek of fresh blood making Doyoung want to retch. He opens them again, and Doyoung wants to shrink into the earth and become nothing, because he's not sure he can process the look of a man who hasn't accepted death, but intends to make war with it. "Kill me. Kill me in cold blood, out of pride and self-righteousness, and tell your people that you _won."_

"That's not why I'm killing you," Doyoung breathes, gripping the knife with both hands, sharpened end sitting just below his Adam's apple.. And why is he killing Kim Jungwoo? To find Johnny? To avenge Taeyong? To prove something to himself? The whole earth is trembling beneath him, or maybe it's just his hands causing the blood trickling from Jungwoo's jugular to form a tight-knit zigzag. Just a little more pressure and this would all be over—nothing will matter anymore, this will be his end. He can finally find his _own_ end. Up above a hawk caws with the morning sun almost mockingly, a death knell that reverberates through the air. 

It's so easy like this. Even the earth beneath him seems to sing a deathly chorale for him and him only, granting him some kind of power he thinks, knows drives men insane because this feeling is pure sin and the only thing Doyoung wants to do is completely sink himself into it. Here he can dispense justice as he sees fit and there will be nobody to tell him he was right or wrong; there's only his rage, only this sick loyalty to Taeyong that's spurring him on. This will be his homecoming, his Nirvana, and when he feels that deep black ocean wash over him something breaks—

Jungwoo's head goes flying backwards, colliding with the floor violently as all of the life in his eyes vanish like smoke in the air. Doyoung's grip on the dagger loosens until it's gone completely, the weapon completely detaching from his mind, his body, his spirit, all the life and power in a single sheet of metal disappearing without so much as a whisper. There was never an earthquake—against Jungwoo's still body he can see very clearly the way his hands are shaking, like he's lost control over his own body. Something warm touches his knee, and he watches a horribly dark red blood creep its way up his pants, staining it an impossibly darker black. 

"You really let him talk for a lot longer than he deserves," a voice calls from the top of the hill, one he doesn't recognize. He knows they're boots when they come to a stop in front of him, inches away from where Jungwoo's head lay. And then Doyoung realizes that he's kneeling over a corpse—it has to be, if the hole in the center of his forehead is anything to go by. The smell of rust filters in through his nose and he doesn't even gag.

"Who are you," he intones weakly when he finally looks up. He's never seen this man before in his life. He recognizes the killing end of a sniper rifle hanging from a strap at his back.

"Nakamoto Yuta," he says. And somehow that's enough, enough for Doyoung to realize that he didn't kill Kim Jungwoo. His hands are still clean, but though he knows this to be true, it still feels like a large piece of his person has been ripped from him in the heat of the moment. 

Taeyong coughs a wet cough and the fugue is shattered. He's at his side in an instant, replacing the hand on his neck with his own and pulling him close. 

"I'm okay," he sputters. His eyes are shut tightly in pain, or fear or disbelief Doyoung doesn't know. He can't know anything anymore. His brain has been completely burnt out of his own skull. All he knows is his gut instinct now, like a wild animal. "I'm okay, Doyoung. I'll live. I'm okay."

"You're bleeding," says Doyoung. The entirety of his palm is stained red at this point, and he can't understand why the blood of the living doesn't burn his skin the way the blood of the dead would. 

"Vampires can't die from blood loss," Yuta says. 

Doyoung shakes his head. "The sword was silver."

"Well it's a good thing I'm not fully a vampire," says Taeyong, pulling away from his chest. He can tell it's still painful, but he makes an effort to steel himself to show Doyoung he's alright. He doesn't buy it, but Yuta comes up to his side, places his hand on Doyoung's and gently shoos him to the side. Taeyong tenses at the stranger touching him, and confusion paints his features. 

"Lee Taeyong," Yuta says, and the faintest smile comes across his face and his eyes soften. "Look at you, all grown up. I haven't seen you since you were a little kid." 

Taeyong is clearly suspicious, but there's no way he doesn't catch the sincerity in his voice. "I don't know who you are," he says. There's a muscle in his jaw that twitches where his teeth are grinding together. Doyoung leaves to retrieve the dagger from Jungwoo's body, and when he's back to kneeling in front of Taeyong he gets to cutting the fabric into a makeshift tourniquet.

"No, I'm not surprised," says Yuta, taking the long, uneven cut of cloth from his hand and getting to wrapping it around Taeyong's neck. "I knew your father once upon a time, though. I really looked up to him when I was a fledgling. Maybe even before that." 

"Oh," is all Taeyong says. 

"What's after this, now that you've caught your killer?" Yuta continues. 

"I have to find my brother," Taeyong says without missing a beat. It takes about a millisecond for Doyoung to process.

_"Johnny?"_ he balks, looking between the two of them. Taeyong hums an affirmative. 

"Johnny Suh, huh?" Yuta echoes, looking thoughtful. "I might have an idea where he is." 

Yuta is...odd. Odd in the way that must be natural, but to see it up close instills a sense of wariness or apprehension. There's a calmness to his disposition that puts him off—not because of that calmness in itself, but because it doesn't match the hardness in his eyes, like there's a burden on his shoulders too much for one person to bear. 

Other than that, Doyoung thinks they're safe in his hands. He's careful making sure the cloth around Taeyong's throat isn't tight enough to discomfort and otherwise regards them with a distracted kindness. Doyoung can feel the imaginary target slip from his skin, replaced by thoughts of the body they had left to the elements. 

In truth, he's still reeling. What would it have taken for him to plunge the knife into Jungwoo's jugular like he was poised to? How would he have felt? Would it have been justified? He can't help but wonder at how the world seemed to fall apart at the seams, how a moment or two seemed to stretch out into infinity; two fates locked together in a death spiral that only accelerated with each intake of breath. 

What kind of life did Jungwoo live that he could bear a feeling as world-ending as that on the regular? How different could their two souls be? What kind of taint would Doyoung have carried with him for the rest of his life if he had been the one to take his life?

He doesn't know. He isn't sure he wants to know. The experience of holding the life of another human in his hands seems to have completely burned him out from the inside out. The hood of Taeyong's shawl is pulled completely over his head, a formless figure as the sun lifts itself from the abyss beneath the horizon. Doyoung wishes he could disappear into his own shadow, too.

When Doyoung takes in the hangar, he's taken aback at the coziness of it all—it's a place that looks lived in, loved and full of warmth. There's a gathering of people in the center of a circle of couches and cushions, and they all turn their way when they walk in. 

"Hyung?" one of them says, leaping over one of the couches in a flurry to greet him. He looks young, but there's something in his expression that betrays an inner turmoil, and Doyoung, as he always does, feels for him. He thinks about Yangyang and the blood on his hands, and wonders if this stranger is just as merciless. "Hyung, you…" he trails off, eyeing the bandage drenched in blood around Taeyong's neck.

"Lee Taeyong," Yuta introduces, and Renjun jumps. 

"You…?" 

"Yes, Renjun," Yuta interrupts. "Please tend to him, get Jaemin to help you if you need." 

"Jaemin is upstairs…" Renjun says, then he leans in and whispers something to Yuta before he's leading Taeyong away to what he hopes is some kind of infirmary. Taeyong casts a look backwards in his direction, and Doyoung knows he'll be alright. 

There's still someone back by the couches, talking to someone who appears to be laying down so Doyoung can't see. He seems totally preoccupied with whoever he's talking to; he throws his head back in a laugh, and the way the piercings in his ear glint in the light bring a memory back that causes his skin to crawl; but his feet are moving before he can process about whether or not it's a good idea. 

"Hey," he says loudly, grabbing Ten's attention. Ten looks like a deer in headlights when he realizes who's in front of him, and he backs away with both his hands held up as if to say, _I'm not here to fight._

"I didn't kill your friend," Ten says, and the person he had been speaking to sits up from the couch suddenly. 

"Doyoung?" 

His heart lurches. 

"Johnny?" 

Doyoung has to take a few steps back to really make sure he's seeing straight. Johnny is there with an expression as shocked as he feels, staring back at him with wide eyes until he breaks into a smile and climbs over the couch to embrace him in a back-breaking hug. 

"Dude! I thought you fucking died!" 

"I thought _you_ fucking died," Doyoung doesn't realize it until he says it, but he's positive that at some point this became more about Taeyong than it did about Johnny—and for a moment, guilt threatens to overwhelm him. But that guilt is quickly replaced with relief, and soon there are tears pouring from his eyes that soak in Johnny's shirt. 

Finally, finally, this was the end—Johnny's okay, he's here, and Doyoung isn't going to have to return to Seoul with the news of his death to his friends and family. They were both still here, and that has to make this all worth it—it has to be. 

"Johnny," he says through his tears, pulling away and wiping his face with his own sleeve. "Johnny, Taeyong is your brother?" 

Johnny clearly wasn't expecting that, and he flushes slightly. "Well—yeah. I thought...I mean, you knew I had family there at the chateau." 

"There's a bit of a gap between having distant relations and being next on the fucking throne, Johnny." 

"The throne?" he asks, but before Doyoung can respond Yuta comes up from behind. 

"I think you should rest a little, Doyoung," he says gently. Part of him is irritated that Yuta seems to feel the need to baby him, but he's probably right. From the corner of his eye he can see that Ten is still on edge, but suddenly he doesn't care anymore. All he wants to do right now is lay down and sleep for the next millenia. 

"Where's Taeyong?" he asks. Sleep can wait. 

Taeyong's eyes light up when he sees Doyoung enter; Yuta's home apparently does have a kind of makeshift infirmary, one not unlike Jaehyun's. 

"Don't move, please," Renjun says, soft but firm. He's cleaning around the wound on his throat meticulously. The blood flow has slowed considerably. Then he looks up at Yuta and says, "We'll be okay, hyung. You should go see Taeil." 

Yuta's mouth opens then closes. He nods a thanks, assuring them Renjun will take care of them before leaving. Doyoung comes to kneel in front of Taeyong, their hands finding each other immediately. 

"How are you feeling?" Doyoung asks. 

"I'm okay." 

He looks far from it, but something about him still seems lighter, as if a burden has been lifted. He smiles at Doyoung, and it feels real. 

Johnny comes to kneel beside him too, and Taeyong's eyes seem to soften. 

"Hyung," he says, and immediately flushes. Johnny just smiles something fond.

"Hey, Yongie," Johnny says softly. "I'm glad you're okay." 

"I've always been okay."

"I know. But I'm still glad for it." There are a few moments of silence where they regard each other with something Doyoung can't read. He can only imagine what kind of relationship they might have in the midst of all this. "Yongie, what happens after this?" 

"You know what happens," Taeyong says. "I'll become king. I'll take Kun's place." 

"But it's not what you want," Johnny says. If it were even a few days earlier, Doyoung thinks Taeyong would have immediately refuted that, claiming something about duty or his birthright. But instead Taeyong seems to deflate and he shakes his head. 

"No. I don't." 

Johnny is quiet for several moments. Renjun taps his chin so he looks up, wrapping a new bandage around his neck silently. 

"Do you want me to take your place?" 

"They wouldn't accept a human on the throne," Taeyong answers without missing a beat, as if he's thought about it. 

"They can't deny my right by blood," Johnny says. Then quieter, as if he's lost confidence, "Plus, you know I don't have to be." 

It's quiet again, and Renjun is almost done with the new bandage. Taeyong is rubbing a circle with his thumb on the back of Doyoung's hand. 

"No," he finally decides. "That's okay. I'll be okay, hyung. Really."

Johnny nods, looking a little disappointed. 

"I'm sorry." 

Taeyong shakes his head in response to the apology, and that's that. Doyoung doesn't understand what the apology is for, but his mind reels at the lost history between them. 

"It's not my place, my Prince," Renjun tries to interrupt politely, "But you and Johnny aren't the only people with rights to the throne." 

"Who else is there?" Johnny asks, perking up. 

Then Renjun seems to look a little regretful, casting his eyes down before steeling himself. "He doesn't want anyone to know, but Yuta was Junmyeon's ward—Luhan's right hand. He isn't tied by blood in the traditional sense, but…" 

He trails off there for them to contemplate on their own. Doyoung doesn't have enough context to form an opinion of his own, but Johnny seems eager to jump at any opportunity to free Taeyong from the shackles of his royal status; and even if he doesn't show it, Doyoung thinks Taeyong would be happy away from the court—and that's not even a selfish desire. There's something hopeful in his eyes though, barely there, the spark of a person Doyoung has never met. He finds that he really, really wants to. 

"I just want to rest now," Taeyong ultimately decides. "We can speak with Yuta later." 

They can all agree to that, and for once the atmosphere doesn't weigh nearly as much on his heart as it has the past few weeks.

Yuta's home is nice, even if he feels a bit weird calling it that. It's not someplace he can envision himself returning to every night, but he doesn't expect to stay here long, anyway. 

Out here, the elevation is somewhat higher than it is in Seoul, and so the night breeze blows colder. Out here, there's also no trace of light pollution; during this time of summer Cygnus shines down at him, and Doyoung tries to envision the broad stardust-covered wings of a swan gliding freely above him. The brightest star, Deneb, twinkles against an inky black canvas, and it's easy enough to imagine that he's up there with it, too. 

A horse whinnies in the distance, and his mind drifts to Jaehyun's manor, to Donghyuck. He hadn't been able to see him when they brought back Jeno; wherever he had gone, he hopes he's safe. Even with Deneb stuck in the fabric of the sky like a pin, everything still seems to be spinning; but, still, Doyoung wants to keep this one promise. He isn't going to let it slip through his hands.

There's light from the corner of his eye, but he doesn't turn to look. Taeyong sits down beside him in the grass. 

"Hey," he says. 

"Hey, cutie," Doyoung greets, and Taeyong breathes a laugh.

"Can't sleep?" 

Doyoung shakes his head. "No, not really. Too much on my mind." 

Taeyong scoots closer to him, rests his head on Doyoung's shoulder. "Thinking about what comes next?" 

"No. Just...just thinking." 

Taeyong hums. "It gets better. I promise." 

Doyoung turns his head to plant a kiss on the crown of Taeyong's head in response. Then, because now's as good a time as any, 

"Will you tell me about you and Johnny?" 

Taeyong doesn't make any indication that he heard him, but he doesn't respond immediately, either. There's a chorus of cicadas in the distance, and Doyoung sits and listens to the lullaby until Taeyong is ready. 

"Most people forget Johnny even exists," he starts. "When Luhan returned to South Korea, he met an American girl--a human. Jaehyun always told me they were the happiest couple he had ever seen, but I never met her. She died giving birth to me." He pauses there, twirls his finger in the grass. "They didn't expect Johnny to live. Children from those kinds of relationships normally don't. When he survived, the court didn't want him, so they sent him to the city. Qian Kun spent a long time finding him for me. Nobody else wanted to."

"They hated him that much?" 

Taeyong shakes his head. "No. I think they just hated me. When I survived, too, I'm told they didn't know what to think. I aged like a human, but I had fangs. I always got sick very easily. I would catch awful colds every other month. I lacked a vampire's immunity, but the sun burned me just as it did those who had been turned. The sight of blood made me cry, but I couldn't eat human food without becoming deathly ill. I was just...something they didn't know what to do with. Something in between."

Doyoung can tell he's frowning just from his voice. But then he smiles, remembering something; "Jaehyun used to sneak me out of the chateau to see Johnny. It was always so exciting," he laughs. "I really admired Johnny back then; I think he was my first friend, really. But as I got older, we grew apart. He seemed to change. I started to think he hated me for what I was, too." 

It's somewhat difficult to imagine fun, laid-back Johnny growing resentment for a younger sibling, but Doyoung supposes there must be a lot Johnny has hidden from him. He wonders if he's truly ashamed of his family. Maybe he felt just as out of place as Taeyong.

"I don't think Johnny hates you," he says anyway. Taeyong doesn't acknowledge it. 

"Anyway, that's all there is to it, really. We lived separate lives. Kun would invite him to the chateau sometimes as a venerated guest, but even though he almost always showed up, he seemed to avoid me like the plague. I had too much pride to chase after him." 

Doyoung isn't arrogant enough to think that there's more that Taeyong isn't telling him. It doesn't seem like he holds any disdain for Johnny--just pure apathy. Maybe a little regret, but that can't be helped.

"I love you," he whispers. "I'm sorry things have always been so hard for you." He doesn't say it in hopes that Taeyong will return it; it's an admission to himself, to the earth, to the wind and the skies above. Something he can keep in his sight in case he ever starts to lose himself again. 

But in the space of what's supposed to be silence, Taeyong nuzzles closer to him and says "I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only wrote this fic for this chapter btw camus' the stranger lives rent free in my mind with a jacuzzi and a passworded gate
> 
> chapter 10 song rec: [buttress - brutus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bI8MT5lVU5c)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas!!!! ^-^

"Taeil," Yuta murmurs at his bedside. "Lucas is here. He's going to help you." 

Taeil stirs, reaching out in the direction of Yuta's voice before he's able to blink his eyes open. "Yuta," he breathes weakly. His skin is clammy and pale. This close he can hear how feeble his heartbeat is, how death is right at his doorstep. Yuta takes his hand gently, intertwines their fingers. Taeil's are cold. 

"I'm here, sweetheart," he whispers. "I'm always going to be here. Lucas is going to help you, okay?" As he says it Lucas comes to kneel beside him, unhooking his satchel from around his shoulders. Taeil eyes him blankly for a few moments before drawing in a labored breath. 

"You can cure me?" he asks. 

"I can only try, Taeil-ssi," Lucas answers. Yuta's chest squeezes at the idea of the unthinkable. 

A bit of life flares in Taeil's eyes suddenly, and he speaks out; "How many lives did it cost, Lucas-ssi?" 

Lucas' eyes widen with shock, and Yuta is equally stunned. "Enough that I know I can never do this again." Lucas says eventually.

Yuta understands the weight on his shoulders. Lucas had offered to do this, but he knew what it would cost—the river of blood Yixing and Chanyeol fostered has carried on to the next generation, soaking Lucas' conscience a deep, deep crimson. And yet he was here with the serum, exchanging the lives of who knows how many people in return for one human he's never even met. The transaction doesn't balance out no matter how he works it out in his head, but there aren't any words Yuta can come up with to express his gratitude. 

Taeil seems to nod, accepting his answer. With a great effort he manages to sit up—the blanket falls from his shoulders and Yuta wants to cry at how much weight he's lost in such a short amount of time. He grips Yuta's wrist when he moves to help him. It's so, so weak. 

"I won't do it," Taeil says. 

One beat, two. "What?" 

"It's not fair," he explains. "I can't take—what isn't mine," he struggles to get out. "I can't do it. I won't be able to live with it." 

No, no—this isn't—

"But you have to," Yuta whispers, numb with disbelief. "You have to Taeil, I can't live without—" 

"Yes you can, my love," Taeil interjects softly, far too warm for what's essentially a deathwish. "You can, because you're so much stronger than you know. That's why I fell in love with you, why I can still love you with all that's left of me now." 

Yuta blinks away the tears that are blurring his vision. He won't force the serum onto him if he doesn't want it. Taeil knows that, and he hates that he knows that. 

Taeil, his Taeil, always too sweet, too warm and loving for someone like him. Of course he would do something like this. "So you would let those lives go to waste?" 

Taeil shakes his head. "They're already gone now, love. That won't make it any easier to bear." 

Yuta looks to Lucas for something, anything he can say that'll convince him to change his mind. But Lucas has a bittersweet look on his face and shakes his head when their eyes meet.

"If the serum fails, it'll be an agonizing death, Yuta-ssi," he says gently, and that gentleness makes Yuta want to scream. "If he doesn't want to risk that, I can't make him. I'm sorry." And in one smooth motion Lucas stands, walking to the exit and closing the door softly in his wake. Yuta stares after him, stunned. He wants to blink and pretend this isn't real, that his house of cards isn't tumbling down all around him. All that Lucas offered for him--how could he throw it away so quickly? Was everything meaningless? He can hardly bear to look Taeil in the eye. He crawls into bed with him, lifting the blanket and pulling him into his arms carefully. His tears are wetting Taeil's hair, but he can't care right now. 

"I don't want you to die," he begs through his tears. He can feel Taeil smile into his chest and wishes the shape of his lips will be seared into his skin for all eternity. 

"Yuta," Taeil murmurs, pulling away from his embrace. "Yuta, listen to me. Please." 

His sobs stop at Taeil's command. His own god is dying in his arms, but he stops to hear him out, what very well may be his last words. 

"Tell me," Yuta says. 

Taeil looks him in the eye and takes a deep breath. Yuta is so, so very scared.

"I want you to turn me." 

And this time Yuta really, really thinks his heart stops beating. "You want me to—?" 

"I don't know if it will work, but—it's the last thing I want from you, my love. Please. At least try." 

Try, try—that's the keyword. He can feel Taeil's life leaving him each moment that passes. It may be too late for the curse to revive him. If he dies tonight, it'll be because—

"If I have to die, Yuta, I want it to be at your hands." 

And for the very first time in his life, Yuta regrets falling in love. Living without Taeil was one thing, but being the cause of his death is something else entirely, something completely unthinkable. Taeil has rendered him speechless. Junmyeon never showed him how to navigate a situation like this. This isn't how it was supposed to turn out. 

"I don't know if I can," he whispers. 

"Of course you can," Taeil says. "I'll be here with you either way." 

He will be, Yuta knows. He's been with him long enough; why not to the very end? 

He isn't ready. He isn't ready, but the only way is forward. 

Always forward. Always forever. 

"Okay," he shudders a breath. "Okay, my love. Anything for you." 

Taeil lifts his head up to kiss him, slow and warm, and Yuta tries to convince himself that this isn't a goodbye. His heartbeat is so, so weak. 

"No matter what happens, Yuta, remember that I love you. Okay?" 

"Okay," he responds. It's a simple truth, one that he tries to burn into his skull to bear what he's about to do. "I love you, too." 

He's fed from Taeil countless times. He never minded the bruises that had amassed on his throat and around his collarbone, on his inner thighs and sometimes even his wrist. Sometimes Yuta thought that he would never care where he bruised him; but above all, Yuta always wished that he could feed from him without hurting him. It's the only pain he could ever willingly inflict on Taeil, and even then he never got over that tiny spark of guilt at making him bleed for his own sustenance. 

He inhales deeply when he presses his nose to his throat like he's done a million times by now. The blood flowing beneath the thin layer of skin smells bitter, but even his sickness can't mask the comfort that the smell of Taeil's blood gives him. It's as natural as gravity, as the rising and setting of the sun each and every day. Taeil wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek. 

"I'm ready," he whispers, and Yuta hums, unable to help the smile that creeps onto his face when Taeil shivers; he's always been a little ticklish. 

Yuta has always avoided his jugular, because it's never been his intent to kill; but the amount of blood he'll have to drain makes it a necessity this time. He's almost certain that Taeil doesn't know this, that it'll hurt far, far more than it usually does. But he can't warn him, because any more hesitation and he won't be able to follow through on his last wish. 

When the first gush of blood rushes into his mouth, he isn't expecting it, and most of it dribbles out of his mouth and onto the bed sheets. Taeil doesn't shout, but his body goes impossibly tense, nails digging into the skin just above Yuta's spine, and part of him wishes he would draw blood of his own. 

He drinks and drinks as much as he can, to the point where he just lets it flow freely out of his neck and onto his clothes, the mattress, the pillows. Yuta has to shut his eyes when he sees his skin going pale, and by the time the tension in Taeil's body has all but completely disappeared, Yuta knows there's nothing more he can do. His breaths are as shallow as he's ever heard it, and his heart only has a few more gasps left within it. 

"I love you," Yuta murmurs into his skin, over and over again until Taeil draws his last breath and the cavity that holds his heart goes completely silent. 

A long time ago, when turnings were still called funerals, it was customary to sit vigil so that whenever the fledgling would awake, they wouldn't be alone. Nowadays it's not such a sentimental affair, but Yuta knows he's never been good at letting go of the past. 

Taeil's body is still warm as he lays him back down gently onto the bed. He looks so peaceful like this, and Yuta imagines a real funeral for him, one where he's surrounded by his parents, children, maybe even grandchildren. It would probably be in a church of some sort as humans like to do, and there would be flowers, somber but colorful decorations of all kinds. 

Yuta doesn't have any flowers. Not much grows out here in Fuckall, South Korea, just tall grass that the wild horses feed on and bitter ferns that occasionally sport rows of thorns on their stems. He doesn't have any appropriate clothes, doesn't have anything reminiscent of the life Taeil never got to live. If it were his choice, he would undo all of this—he would have given Taeil a family that loved and cared for him, one that wouldn't drive him to run away just after highschool, one that loved him no matter what his career aspirations were. Yuta would trade the three years they spent together for decades of a normal life for Taeil; he doesn't think there's anything he wouldn't offer to give Taeil a second chance. 

It's nothing he hasn't told him before, and Taeil always resented when he said those kinds of things. But it's the truth. He cares more about Taeil than he cares about himself; it was Taeil that taught him to look forward to the next time the sun rose over the horizon even if he couldn't feel its warmth anymore, and it was Taeil that taught him that nobody's life is perfect, that even if a tree is stunted or can't grow its branches correctly or has weak roots or doesn't have pretty leaves that dance in the breeze, that tree still has worth. Taeil taught him that there's love in simply _being,_ and that every day was a gift. 

They both had blood on their hands. They were far from the most moral people on the planet, but they were also far from the worst. With Taeil, Yuta learned to be okay with living in between those extremes. It's not a perfect life, but he tries. 

People like Jungwoo couldn't be like them. People like Jungwoo were only satisfied when they dealt in absolutes; but even despite that, he knew from the moment the silver bullet pierced his skull that that would be the last time he kills in cold blood, and his only solace in taking that final life was that it was in vengeance for someone who didn't deserve it. Yangyang's death isn't something he wants to let haunt him like Junmyeon's did.

Yuta kneels at the bedside and murmurs the vow to himself, one hand clasped with Taeil's, cheek resting on the mattress looking up at his still form. 

He doesn't cry. 

At the first stir of Taeil's heart, Yuta's head shoots up and he momentarily goes dizzy with shock. Then it comes again, stronger this time, as are the subsequent ones. He watches as color returns to his cheeks and heat begins to radiate from his chest outward to the rest of his body. 

It's only when Taeil blinks his eyes open and gives him a sleepy smile does Yuta let the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 11 song rec: [jeffrey lewis - alphabet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_UrwubMwMxo)
> 
> i'm sorry the chapters have been shorter and shorter. honestly, i'm really feeling the burnout on this fic v_v sorry about that. but we're nearing the end! thank you for sticking around!!!


	12. Chapter 12

"Okay. I'll do it." 

Those are Yuta's words to the three of them at the suggestion of his ascension to the throne. His acquiescence is almost too good to be true; he hadn't had a single objection, his only request being that Renjun and the others come to live with him in the chateau. 

"It can be a new start for us all," he had said, and Renjun had begun crying then and there. _Uncomfortable_ wasn't a strong enough word to describe how Doyoung had felt then and there, as if he had just caught the tail end of a long and painful history. Yuta had just laughed and hugged Renjun close. 

Doyoung meets Xiaojun, Jaemin, and Taeil that same day, but not the tall stranger carrying the dark satchel he had seen climb the metal stairs up to what he thinks was Yuta's room. He had only spared Doyoung a glance before disappearing behind the door, but in the haze of exhaustion in the fullest sense of the word, he hadn't thought much about it. He didn't have to, anyway. Yuta's affairs aren't his own.

Ten is still around, but he avoids Doyoung like he's going to try to attack him again--which he finds more comical than anything. He doesn't give Taeyong the same treatment, but either way he seems to cling to Johnny, which, for his own sanity, he declined to form any opinion on. Johnny didn't seem to mind, and that's all that mattered.

He thinks he slept for at least a quarter of the time Yuta disappeared upstairs, his empty dreams periodically interrupted by chatter from Johnny and the other inhabitants of the hangar. They had given him a space that was about as private it could get, but he didn't mind the lack of isolation. 

When he first meets Taeil, he finds Renjun and Jaemin fussing over him like mother hens, their voices betraying shock and joy in equal measure. He doesn't understand, and he doesn't ask. It's nice to see so many smiling faces. 

When he finds out it was in fact Yuta that had spirited Johnny away from the chateau that night, Doyoung thinks he should be angrier. He thinks he should feel anything at all. But Johnny's always been a laid back person, and if he isn't going to make a big fuss over his life being briefly used as a playing card, then he sure as hell isn't going to. Either way, Yuta offers them a lot in recompense, including some large-scale estate that belonged to some powerful coven or other, which both of them deny. He doesn't know Johnny's reasoning, but Doyoung just wants to leave all of this behind. He wonders if they've both been declared missing, if anyone even noticed they were gone. Doyoung can imagine the backlog of notifications on his laptop still lying haphazardly on his bed. 

Yuta, sympathetic to their predicament, lets them stay in the hangar for as long as they need, which amounts to about a week while they both regain their bearings. Normally he would have jumped at the opportunity to leave as soon as possible, but then he remembers the way Taeyong looks at him when they're alone together. He's quiet, but this time it's gentle, not something judgemental. He doesn't ask for anything more than what Doyoung is able to give, and for that he's grateful. 

"Will you come to Yuta's inauguration?" Taeyong asks him at one point, a dark parasol casting a wide shadow in the low grass. He's befriended one of the wild ponies that roam the area, nipping carefully at the edge of the parasol while Taeyong coos at it. The sun is at its zenith above them, the sky a perfect blue. As is usual, their hands find each other without word. 

"I will if you want me to be there," he answers. It's really unbearably hot today. There's a collection of electric fans whirring away in the hangar that he misses right about now. 

"I do," says Taeyong. "It'll be my first and last act as king regent. There's bound to be adventures galore in the ensueing celebration." He says it so casually that for a moment Doyoung thinks he's gone insane. Then Taeyong turns to him and laughs at the shock on his face. "Sorry. I thought it would be funny."

"Ha." 

"But, you know. After that, I don't know what's next." 

Doyoung doesn't either, and it's something he's been putting out of his mind. "I don't know, either." A small yellow ladybug lands on the pony's forehead, a speck of gold against light brown. It stretches its wings out almost gallantly, soaking in the sunlight. Taeyong is watching it, too. 

"Yuta seemed to notice something was on my mind. He told me no matter what, I'd always have time to figure things out. There's no need to rush."

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. "Is he that shrewd? Or are we that obvious?" 

"Could be both." 

The ladybug flits away then, as quick as it came. The pony seems to get bored of Taeyong's petting too, retreating back to where it came from with a huff. It's just the two of them then, the hangar a ways behind them, and a large expanse of grass stretching in any direction. Doyoung intertwines his fingers with Taeyongs and pulls him closer. 

"Let's not rush, then. Let's enjoy all the time we have together now. We can make more time later." 

Taeyong's smile is radiant, his eyes wide with emotion as he gazes at Doyoung like he's the only person in the world, the only reason the sun rises overhead in the mornings and sets at night. Doyoung wishes he could capture the way he looks now forever, because here, this moment between them, infinitesimal as it may be, feels like it could stretch on ad infinitum, and he can't think of anything he'd rather have right now than Taeyong by his side for as long as his heart is still beating. 

Taeyong leans up just that little bit to connect their lips; even with the deep shadow he's cast in, even though the blood in his body doesn't flow the same way Doyoung's does, his lips are comfortably, impossibly warm, and they're gone all too soon.

"I'd really love that, Doyoung."

Against what's probably better judgement, there is, in fact, a rather colorful celebration once Taeyong hands over all kingly rights to Yuta, and the rest of the royal court is reasonably shocked at the announcement. Doyoung hears a lot of _I thought he was dead,_ and _Is he really as old as he says he is?_ , but nobody is openly rejecting him. 

"They're just happy to be rid of me," Taeyong tells him, but there's no hint of bitterness—just cool, lighthearted relief. He looks like he could start floating up towards the sky at any moment from lack of burden. 

They're both wrapped up in each other for the majority of the night, even deigning to leave once the festivities really begin to find some alone time elsewhere on the estate. It's because of this, Yangyang thinks, that they don't notice him; it's always nice when someone creates their own blind spot. For Yuta and the others, they're too busy being harangued by anyone who's able to get within two feet of them to notice him either, which is a shame, because he had spent an outrageous amount of time putting together a nice outfit for the occasion. 

It's no important matter, really. He doesn't know what happened after he had lost them in the caverns, but he'd be damned if Liu Yangyang missed the greatest opportunity to start a new life that could have ever been possibly granted to him that night. 

"Are you sure you don't want to go say goodbye?" Sicheng asks him, picking up on the mixture of melancholy and relief that's probably coming off of him in waves. "You never know what might happen in the future. This might be your last chance." 

Yangyang shakes his head. "I do, but not now. If I get another chance to talk with them, I might not be able to leave after all." He's doing this for himself, above all—though the parting hurts, sometimes these things are best done with a clean cut. He turns to Sicheng then. "We can go now, if you want. I only wanted to make sure everything turned out okay." 

"Alright," his friend says. He holds up his wine glass, and Yangyang clinks them together with a smile. "Here's to new beginnings." 

"To new beginnings," Yangyang echoes jovially. 

_And happy endings after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've made it this far you're legally obligated to comment your favorite song(s)
> 
> thank you for reading my fanfic! this is the end!!!! (⌒ω⌒).｡.:*☆
> 
> sorry for any continuity errors or grammar mistakes or like some scenes i just totally forgot to write and you can still see my writing scaffolding or literally anythign else that made this fic not perfect...and im also sorry if the ending seems really rushed, but as i mentioned before the burnout on this is kicking my ass and i really just want to put it out of my mind since i've been working on it for almost a year now. i wrote it all on my own in my spare time so its certainly not perfect, but i'm happy a lot of people seemed to like it and i'm happy i was able to see this project through to its end. i'll probably come back every now and then and update some parts to make it seem more connected or more of a "fuller story" or however you wanna phrase it. 
> 
> also, i do have a spinoff haechan fic for this i will be posting sometime within the month, so keep an eye out! ^-^
> 
> i love you, reader, very much, and i hope you have a wonderful day/night/2021 ♡( ◡‿◡ )
> 
> chapter 12 song rec: [ bomb the music industry! - future 86](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_HDT-w5kms)


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